


Trade Agreements

by MsSolo



Series: Detente [7]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF Alfred Pennyworth, Bad Parent Talia al Ghul, Blow Jobs, Canon Statutory Rape, Dead Parent, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, KonMari, M/M, POV switch, Power Moves, Rimming, Shorts, Slash, Wedding Planning, step parenting, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsSolo/pseuds/MsSolo
Summary: Random bits and pieces relating to Detente1 - Tim had taken it and turned it around, told Damian he deserved the very thing Ra’s was mocking, and what was Damian supposed to do with that sentiment?2 - Alfred stands still, his gaze locked firmly on Bruce's. He pops the champagne cork.3 - "Does this pizza box spark more joy for you than I do?”4 - "I’d have left him, and taken our what-if children with me, and you would have come to our what-if house for what-if holidays until he realised what a damned what-if fool he was being.”5 - “Jason is less sentimental about motherhood, for obvious reasons.”





	1. In which a marriage is consummated, redux

**Author's Note:**

> (you have no idea how badly I wanted to title this collection Batxit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His father’s attempt at ‘The Talk’ had furnished him with more information than school’s health lessons, but having a theoretical understanding of how to apply, use and discard a condom in order to prevent infection did not give him confidence in his skills as a potential lover. What is an acceptable amount of foreplay once you’re both already hard? How long should the act itself last? How do you determine who takes which role? What’s the etiquette in determining who’s orgasm take priority?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This actually picks up just before the end of chapter six, and stops short of the end of chapter seven. Damian has slightly different beats to Tim, I find. He also contrives to somehow be even angstier, especially when he's nervous.
> 
> I started writing this when I was struggling with the epilogue for Unification, because apparently happy bat boys having healthy sex is of no interest to me when I could be writing desperate, virginal fumblings being crushed by their own insecurities. I will finish the happy sex scene at some point, and I have some wedding-related bits (well, wedding-related fights, because angst!) but mostly I'll just add to this as and when. I won't commit to taking prompts, but if there is anything you want to see, feel free to try and inspire me!

Damian stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. His chest is heaving, making the loose robe flutter around him. It still has bloodstains on it from the wedding ceremony.

His grandfather was working hard to give everything a sense of heightened reality. He’d felt good a few moments before, disassembling Ra’s artifice to scoff at its component parts. But then Tim had taken it and turned it around, told Damian he deserved the very thing Ra’s was mocking, and what was Damian supposed to do with _that_ sentiment?

Run away, apparently, like a coward.

He could go out there are tell Tim he isn’t ready. It wouldn’t be a lie. He’s interested, more than interested, but he isn’t as prepared as he wants to be. He needs more time for research and practice. Tim would be sympathetic to his plight.

Ra’s wouldn’t.

He hears Tim moving around in the bedroom. Waiting for him.

He looks at his reflection again. He could be cleaner, he decides. There are blood spots on his clothes and dried sweat on his skin. Whatever happens next, taking the time to wash himself will be time well spent. There is no shower or bath, but he can strip and clean himself with a washcloth and warm water.

He wishes he had more information. His father’s attempt at ‘The Talk’ had furnished him with more information than school’s health lessons, but having a theoretical understanding of how to apply, use and discard a condom in order to prevent infection did not give him confidence in his skills as a potential lover. What is an acceptable amount of foreplay once you’re both already hard? How long should the act itself last? How do you determine who takes which role? What’s the etiquette in determining who’s orgasm take priority?

What will Tim expect of him? Is it acceptable to ask?

He runs the cloth over his chest, scrubbing at the curled hairs growing between his pecs. His nipples are hard, and it’s not from the cold air. Anticipation coils in his gut and he’s unsurprised to see his penis start to plump between his legs.

At least he has nothing to be ashamed of in that department, he supposes.

He remembers his birthday, the heat of Tim beside him, the way his lips had pursed as he turned his head up, the electricity between them. He wants this. He wants Tim. He wants this _with_ Tim. 

Tim must have had a moment like this. A first time. Apprehension. He knows his brother - his _husband_ \- and the inability to perfect one’s technique in private first, before experimenting with a partner, must have been even greater torture for him than it is for Damian. It is a comforting thought.

He runs wet hands through his hair to tame it, and puts the wedding robes back on. He feels a little better now he’s cleaned up. Tim knows about his inexperience. Though he rarely trained under the older Robin, he has at least trained beside him, and he trusts Tim to be a good teacher. He will bring what little experience he has and lay it at Tim’s feet, and let Tim guide him from there.

He leaves the bathroom and strides back into the bedroom with more confidence than he left it. Tim is by the bed, examining a substance between his fingers. He drops the container back on the bedside table, and Damian’s gaze follows the action.

He wants to ask, wants to confirm his suspicions, but if he dwells for too long on what’s ahead he’ll lose the nerve he’s cultivated so far, and fail to initiate the sequence of events that leads... Damian swallows. That leads to acts that require lubrication.

Sex.

His cock twitches between his legs and he doesn’t dare look down to see if he’s tenting the robe. Timothy remains composed.

He waiting for Damian to make the first move.

So be it.

He stalks across the room, concentrating on the silent heel-toe of walking, bringing something of his mother to his movements. Tim stands, shoulders back, body open, arms just far enough from his sides that Damian can slip his hand onto Tim’s hip and draw him close. 

He catches his breath for a moment, letting himself grow accustomed to having Tim so close. The phantom smell of coffee hangs in the air between them, a memory rather than a real scent in the room, and Damian lets himself pretend it’s his birthday still, that Dick isn’t going to interrupt them, that this is just a natural sequence of events and not the result of his grandfather’s manipulations.

He leans down and presses his lips to Tim’s.

His heart lurches in his chest, not entirely pleasantly, and his pulse thunders in his ears. Tim’s mouth is warm and dry and firm under his. Tim’s arms still hang at his sides, and Damian starts to draw back, wanting to get another look at Tim’s face before he makes another move, but as he does so Tim comes to life beneath him. He follows the movement of Damian’s head and Damian softens his pout for another kiss, but instead gets Tim’s teeth grazing his lower lip.

A bolt of white hot electricity runs straight from his bottom lip to his cock, and his mouth drops open as a moan escapes. Tim takes advantage immediately, tongue darting in to keep his lips parted. Now Tim’s arms come up around him, and Damian wraps both arms around Tim’s waist to lift him onto his tiptoes for a better angle. His cock pulses as he lets Tim take the lead.

Tim’s tongue withdraws and Damian takes it as an invitation, pressing his own into Tim’s mouth. He’s rewarded with a groan and Tim’s hands tightening in his robes. He echoes Tim’s actions, finding the angles Tim seems to like best, and he’s increasingly pleased with himself. Kissing is something he knows, something he’s practised, and Tim seems to like his technique. He tightens his arms around the other man, feeling Tim’s growing erection against his hip, and he knows he did that. He’s doing that.

Tim jerks his head back and Damian’s self-confidence wobbles on a knife edge.

“Against the wall,” Tim gasps. “Push me against the wall.”

He doesn’t need asking twice. Damian spins them and pins Tim to the wall with his upper body, sealing their lips together again. His hands slip from Tim’s back to his buttocks, and they’re the perfect size under his palms. Tim has one leg between Damian’s and he’s grinding against Damian’s thigh, conveniently giving Damian the perfect amount of friction against his own erection. They’re getting close to the edge of Damian’s comfort zone, the acts he has experience with. Tim removes his leg, and Damian finds himself rutting against the space between Tim’s thighs.

Tim jumps, and suddenly his not inconsiderable weight is on Damian’s hips.

“Timothy!”

He fumbles and nearly drops the other man, fingers digging in tight to Tim’s glutes to keep from dropping him against the wall.

“Don’t stop,” Tim says. “I want to feel the weight of you, pinning me here. Keep kissing me. Keep _touching_ me.”

Damian nearly drops Tim again, but this time because his hips respond of their own accord, thrusting against the curve of Tim’s rear. He crowds Tim against the wall, revelling in the vice like grip of Tim’s thighs around his ribs. Tim’s hands are on his head, one tangled in his hair and the other cupping the curve of his jaw, directing Damian’s kisses. Damian's skin prickles under Tim's touch, responding to the smallest guidance like a highly tuned race car. The minute adjustments remind him he's in safe hands and he's able to let go of at least a portion of his insecurity. In its place comes a fire, a heat he's never given himself entirely over to before, not in the presence of another person, and the knowledge he's going to tonight stokes the flames higher.

His hips piston against Tim's body, driven by the rising pressure inside him like an overstoked steam engine. His robe is soaked through with precum and he doesn’t remember ever being this hard in his life. He shifts Tim against the wall, spreading his cheeks a little wider, and finds a better angle. He loses himself in their actions, grinding and kissing and clutching and holding, and lets instinct take over.

“Are you close, baby bat?”

The pet name sends a spike through Damian’s lizard hindbrain and he whines. He’s so close Tim’s words almost feel like permission.

He desperately wants them to be permission.

No. No, he has to bank the fire. There's so much more he wants to do tonight. He remember this, remembers the mortification with Jon, and there’s nowhere to run here, nowhere to hide from his shame if he loses control.

“I have to wait.” Damian buries his face in Tim’s neck, too embarrassed to look at him while he’s unravelling like this. “It’s too soon. But I can’t- I _need_ -”

He _needs_.

“You can.”

Damian feels kisses rain down on his shoulder like cool water on the desert sand. His skin blossoms under Tim’s attention and it feels so good. He can’t describe how good he feels, couldn’t have imagined it, and he’s losing his grip on why that’s a bad thing.

“I want you to feel good, baby bat. I’m going to make you feel so good, over and over.” 

Damian’s hips stutter against Tim, his thrusts becoming shorter and more desperate. Everything is tightening, focusing, down to that one hot point of connection. His precum has turned the layers of silk and linen between them into a slippery, smooth barrier that Damian imagines is not dissimilar to a condom. In his mind he’s thrusting into Tim, not against him.

“I’m going to make you come so many times tonight, Damian. You can come now.”

Damian’s knees threaten to buckle. The world keeps getting smaller and smaller and he’s teetering on the edge but he needs to hear it again.

“Tell me again,” he begs.

“Come for me, Damian. Come now.”

He presses his face into the crook of Tim’s shoulder, mouth falling open as he keens, and he bites down to muffle the noises he’s making.

And he lets go.

Tim keeps talking, his tone soothing and almost proud, but Damian is too lost in his own head to dig into why. His knees threaten to buckles and he has to let go of Tim to brace himself against the wall. He’s giddy and lightheaded, his existence boiled down to needs and the sating of them.

He presses wet kisses to Tim’s mouth, interrupting his sweet babble, trying to convey his gratitude and relief.

Tim breaks the kiss again and Damian’s brain finally catches up to hear, “... rid of these clothes.”

Damian looks down at his stained tunic. Right. He steps back to give Tim space.

“How many times do you think I can make you come?” Tim’s voice is husky.

Damian doesn’t understand what Tim’s saying. It doesn’t mesh with his understanding of sexual intercourse, but then the words sink in and his world wobbles on its axis, because of course he can come more than once. How many nights has he spent thinking of Tim, tipping himself over the edge repeatedly because he’s too wound up by the memory of not kissing him? It seems natural for masturbation, but it never occurred to him it applied to sex as well.

How many times can Tim make him come?

Tim shakes the robe from his shoulders and pulls his tunic over his head. Damian’s eyes rake down his body, the planes of his pecs, the lines of his abs, the curve of his hips, the nest of his pubic hair, and… oh.

His eyes snap back up to Tim’s and he feels the blush spreading across his cheeks.

“You can look,” Tim says, amused. “You can do more than look.”

It hits Damian like a punch in the gut, and he feels like he’s failed Tim, taking his pleasure and leaving Tim standing.

Tim reaches for him, and he lets his lover strip him out of his soiled clothes. He gets a proper look at Tim’s neck.

“I hurt you,” he blurts, extending his hand to run his fingers over the bruise. His teeth marks are bright and crisp on Tim’s white skin.

Tim tilts his head to one side, looking down at the wound Damian inflicted on him, like so many he inflicted in the past.

“You marked me,” Tim says. “I like it. I’m yours.”

Tim’s his.

He rips off his tunic and grabs Tim in both arms, pressing their naked bodies together. He’s into unexplored territory here and he loves it, the feel of skin on skin, and he pulls Tim up and sucks at his flesh, determined to pepper him with evidence of Damian’s ownership.

“The bed,” Tim mumbles into Damian’s hair, and he obeys, lifting Tim up bodily and carrying him over to the mattress. He drops Tim through the curtains, falls with him.

Tim squirms beneath him and Damian enjoys it. Tim writhes up the bed, untangling the sheets from around him, and Damian slides back, kissing his way down Tim’s body. All of this is _his_. His to worship, and he knows the font at which he wishes to kneel.

Tim brings his feet up to rest on the edge of the mattress and Damian presses a quick kiss to Tim’s navel, his lover’s cock hot and hard against his collarbone.

“Tell me what to do,” he says.

“What do you want to do?” Tim asks.

Damian licks his lips. He doesn’t know quite what to say if Tim presses him for an answer. Fellatio sounds too formal, but sucking cock is too vulgar.

Tim saves him from his dilemma. “Have you ever done it before? Gone down on a guy?”

Damian shakes his head. “Instruct me.”

Tim shifts and Damian hears the sheets crinkle under his hands.

“Keep working your way down. Keep marking me.”

Tim always tells him exactly what he wishes to hear.

Tim’s flesh is salty under his tongue and just a little bitter. There’s something else in the taste that Damian suspects is the lingering effects of the pit, which makes his tongue tingle in response. They are bound.

Tim is moaning and writhing beneath him and Damian smiles as he sucks little bruises along his abs. He’s doing this to Tim.

“You’re so good,” Tim says. “God, Damian.”

Damian kisses down the inside of Tim’s left thigh, and again down his right. Tim’s cock tickles the underside of his jaw and his mouth waters at the thought of tasting it.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks. He’s not sure if he’s waiting for instruction or teasing out the anticipation. He likes seeing Tim like this, made desperate by Damian, his perfect control coming to pieces. He wants to string it out a little longer.

“Wrap… wrap your hand around the base. Kiss me at the tip.”

He puts his palm to Tim’s dick first and curls his fingers around one at a time, until he has it in a firm grip. It’s not so different to his own, really: slightly narrower, skin paler, and the hair at the base longer than Damian keeps his. He moves his hand experimentally, feeling Tim’s foreskin slide up and down the shaft. It’s looser than his, which is something Damian’s never really considered before. He’s never had his hands on any dick apart from his own, and he wants to get to know Tim’s just as intimately.

He inhales Tim’s musk. His own cock is rising again, but a sudden wave of butterflies in his stomach slow its ascent. The consequences of getting this wrong are more dramatic than making out and frottage. He could hurt Tim.

He swallows and chooses to follow Tim’s instructions to the letter. Tim’s precum is slick against lips. He finds he doesn’t care for the taste, which is disappointing, but not so much so he wants to stop, not when Tim’s hips quiver beneath him like it’s taking all his self control to keep from fucking Damian’s mouth.

He opens his lips and presses a wetter kiss to Tim’s head, tongue dipping out to lick along Tim’s slit. 

Tim whines. Damian pauses as Tim pants, gives him a chance to regain his composure.

“Take the head of my cock in your mouth,” Tim gasps, lifting his head from the bed to meet Damian’s eyes. “Mind your teeth.”

Damian smirks at the reminder, and flashes his teeth at Tim to show he’s paying attention. It earns him a smile and he returns it, pressing a kiss to Tim’s thigh before returning his attentions to Tim’s cock.

It feels bigger in his mouth than it does in his hand, and his jaw immediately starts to ache. The head of Tim’s cock bumps against the roof of Damian’s mouth and he swallows reflexively, suddenly conscious of the limits of his gap reflex. He presses his tongue to the underside of Tim’s head and thrusts his lower jaw forward, finding a slightly easier position that allows him to take a fraction more of Tim’s cock into his mouth.

“Don’t make yourself uncomfortable. If your jaw gets sore, pull off.”

Damian tries to answer, but unable to move his jaw or tongue all he achieves is a hum, which earns him a groan from Tim. He makes a mental note.

“Move… move your hand.”

He brings his fist up to meet his lips, then back down to Tim’s pelvis. After a couple of repetitions he finds his mouth following it down, almost by instinct. His senses are consumed by Tim, sight and scent and sound and taste and touch. His eyes flutter shut and he swallows reflexively.

Suddenly he’s gagging, and it takes him a moment to process why as he jerks his head back. Tim’s hips are off the bed and the back of Damian’s throat is throbbing. He inhales through his mouth for a second.

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim sounds like he’s on the verge of sobbing. “Hold me down. Use your other hand and hold me down so I can’t-”

“You’re close,” Damian says, looking down at Tim’s cock, the mixed strings of saliva and precum catching in the candlelight like some obscene ornament. 

“Yes,” Tim breathes. “I’ll warn you, before I come. Just, please, Damian, please don’t stop, please suck me. Your mouth is so good. Hold me down and suck me, baby bat.”

He can’t help the grin that splits his face, and he knows he must look downright predatory. He hooks one of Tim’s legs over his shoulder, so his thigh is pressed comfortingly to Damian’s ear, and presses Tim’s opposite hip into the bed with his hand, tanned skin dark against the delicate white flesh. He wants to hear Tim tell him he’s good again, to hear him say ‘please’ over and over, to be praised for his work.

He adjusts his grip on Tim’s cock and wraps his mouth around the head again, sucking slightly. He finds his previous position more easily and now he has control of Tim’s hips he feels more confident. He finds his rhythm quickly, and he’s annoyed when Tim starts pulling on his hair and gasping at him. He wants Tim to appreciate his newfound confidence, but Tim's cock is pulsing against his tongue and the roof of his mouth is coated with a thick bitter fluid at a speed that forces him to pull off before he gags.

Tim’s cock slips from his mouth and keeps unloading ropes of hot cum onto Damian’s face.

Tim’s babbling again, legs falling open. Damian slides out from between Tim’s legs and climbs onto the bed. Tim is still lying sideways across it, which Damian doesn’t care for - it’s a big bed, wide enough for Tim to lie that way, but Damian doesn’t want his head and feet dangling off either side. He drops down with his head on the pillow and tugs Tim’s shoulders until he reorientates himself to join Damian.

He’s reminded of the cooling cum on his face when Tim reaches up to wipe it away. He catches Tim’s wrist before he can wipe his hand on the sheets and sucks Tim’s fingers into his mouth one at a time, giving them the attention he didn’t get a chance to lavish upon Tim’s cock. Tim whimpers, calls him ‘Baby bat’ a few more times, and trembles under his ministrations. Damian likes it, satisfaction pooling in his stomach.

When he is done with his ministrations on Tim’s hand he moves to Tim’s face, tongue lapping at his lips until Tim lets him in, and they share wet, sloppy kisses. Damian wonders if this is it, now they’ve both had their orgasm, but remember Tim asking how many he could wring from Damian and he can’t help but remind his lover of his promise by nudging his erect cock against his hip. Tim takes the hint and wraps his hand loosely around Damian cock, tugging on it languidly. It’s nice, and Damian isn’t as desperate as he was earlier, but he still feels like there’s a lack of urgency in Tim’s movements.

“Oh, baby bat. So good to me,” Tim sighs. Damian kisses him again, positive reinforcement for his much desired praise. He grinds into Tim’s grip. Tim gives his dick an appreciative squeeze. “Would you like to fuck me, baby bat?”

Damian’s hips answer for him, bucking into Tim’s hand.

“You’d like that?”

Damian swallows. How he’d like that. Tim beneath him, Tim above him, Tim surrounding him, hot and tight and wet.

It’s terrifying.

“Tim.” He almost says ‘Drake’. He doesn’t know why the old name is so close to the tip of his tongue, except he does: he needs the distance. Drake. Timothy. Husband. Beloved.

Damian wants this. Damian wants it desperately. It can’t be even half an hour since he lost control imagining it. But now it’s on the table something in him recoils. He has already learned so much about how to please a lover this evening, just enough to grasp how much more there is to know. All he knows about anal sex is risk: risk of injury, risk of disease, risk of pain. He knows there’s more to it, but no one ever shares pleasure when they’re ‘educating’ you. It isn’t maths, where the method is the most important thing to demonstrate. No, all he was deemed needful of was warnings and barriers and dissuasion.

“Tim,” Damian says, reaching into the most honest place in himself, “would you fuck me?”

He feels Tim stiffen against him, and when he meets Tim’s eyes they’re round and wet.

“Of course, baby bat,” Tim breathes, like Damian has bestowed a great honour upon him.

Tim rolls onto his back and pulls Damian on top of him. He covers the smaller man. He likes the feeling, like Tim is safe beneath him, hidden from the cruel world, his and his alone. He brackets Tim’s legs with his and rocks his hips against Tim’s. Tim isn’t hard again yet, but he twitches against Damian like it’s only a matter of time.

Tim kisses him, tongue tracing the inside of his teeth as his fingers run over the sensitive skin of Damian’s ribs. Damian doesn’t understand how he _knows_ exactly where to touch to make him squirm. He finds places Damian didn’t even know about himself with unerring exactitude. His fingers circle Damian’s nipple; Damian knows that they can be used for erotic stimulation, but he’s never bothered on his own before. And yet, as Tim teases him, he finds himself wanting more.

“Pinch me,” he says, only half knowing why.

It is an instinct well rewarded, though, and his cock pulses against Tim’s hip in response to his lover’s teasing tweak.

Tim repeats the action on the other side, making Damian’s arousal pleasingly symmetrical, but then he starts to squirm out from under Damian. Damian releases him immediately, fearing he made Tim uncomfortable, and starts to roll onto his side to continue their embrace.

Tim puts a hand on his back and guides him back down to the mattress.

“Lie down for me, baby bat. Trust me.”

And Damian does, so he does, nestling down amongst the pillows, though he can’t resist the urge to watch Tim. Tim is watching him back, eyes passing over his skin with a gaze so heated Damian feels it.

“You’re so perfect. I want to worship every inch of you.” Tim is speaking with complete sincerity and Damian can only wonder what the candlelight is obscuring. Of the two of them, Tim is the one worthy of worship, the only point he’ll ever bring himself to agree with his grandfather on. Tim leans close, and whispers, “I’m going to make you come again, Damian. I’m going to make you writhe and beg and come undone and you’re always going to think of me when you feel this way.”

Tim’s words run through Damian’s veins like molten metal and he has to bury his face in the pillow to get away from his piercing gaze.

It’s a shame his new husband is clearly mad, but Damian supposes he’ll go along with it if he has to.

“Please,” he says, with as much composure as he can muster. It’s very little.

Tim kisses each of Damian’s buttocks tenderly. There’s something amusing about the deliberation with which he does it, but before Damian can dwell on it Tim runs something - a finger, a toe, a nose? - down his spine and into his cleft. Something wet presses against his anus, which is a good feeling, but when Damian put all the pieces together and realises it’s Tim’s tongue he groans into the pillow.

“Ever thought about this, Damian?”

Why would a person ever think about this? Who could conceive of putting their tongue there? He shakes his head helplessly, desperate for another kiss where no one should ever place one.

“Never?” Tim prompts.

“I... I don’t know… I…”

“I’m going to eat you out, baby bat. I’m going to use my mouth to get you wet and ready for me.”

He tries to tell Tim it’s too much, that he can’t ask it of him, that he needs more information about what the act entails and its risks, but it all comes out in Arabic as Tim lifts his hips and slides his hand down Damian’s cock. Tim’s tongue finds Damian’s cleft and works down it, until it’s probing at the tight ring of muscle that feels so good.

He tells Tim he loves him. He hates him. He can’t bear it. He has to have more. He demands Tim worship him. He pledges his faith to Tim. He calls him lover and husband and moonlight. 

He calls him Tim, over and over and over, until abruptly the sensation that is driving him to insanity changes, hardens and deepens and he wonders briefly if this is Tim’s cock even though he knows it can’t be, and it’s like a nerve strike, it’s so sudden, and he’s coming and cursing and pleading until he’s incapable of any language.

His orgasm wrings the last drops of vital essence from him and he falls sideways, shaking off Tim’s grip. He pants into the pillows, reduced to a physical, mindless mass. He is wordless. He is thoughtless. He is nothing.

“Hey, baby bat, you okay?”

Tim is beside him. He is Tim’s.

He reaches for language, and finds some, to his surprise. “I’m going to think of you,” he says, Tim’s promise coming back to him, “every time I feel like that.”

“That’s right, baby bat.”

Tim sounds smug. Damian just wants to weep.

“How am I ever going to feel that way without you?”

“You will, baby bat.” 

Tim caresses him, but Damian shakes his head and curls tighter on himself. He’s too raw still, too overstimulated.

“Do you still want me to fuck you, Damian?” Tim asks.

Damian nods.

“Do you want to wait a minute?”

Damian nods again.

“Okay, baby bat. Move over a little? I don’t want to lie in the wet spot.”

He wishes Tim would stop talking. He needs time to digest what just happened. His body is still shaking with aftershocks.

"Are you done?" Tim asks. "It's okay."

It’s reassuring to hear, but he doesn’t want to be done. Done means tonight is over.

He pulls Tim close, burying his nose in Tim’s hair. He feels Tim breathing against his chest and it steadies him, his own lungs falling into the slow rhythm. The sweat drying on his skin prickles, and he’s conscious he’s still got Tim’s cum drying in his eyebrows. His limbs are heavy, like he’s about to drift off to sleep, but there’s still a nagging flutter in his stomach that tells him he could go another round. He concentrates on it, teasing out the feeling until it replaces the emptiness left by his orgasm.

He shifts, and feels Tim against the line of his body.

"You're still hard.” He has had two orgasms to Tim’s one. He owes him another.

"Oh no, not an erection. How ever will I survive.”

Tim’s flat tone startles a chuckle from Damian. Tim, at least, doesn’t feel like the scales have been unfairly weighted in Damian’s favour. Damian runs a hand down Tim’s spine appreciatively.

"Seriously, Damian, if you're spent, we're done. Anything else you want to try, we can do tomorrow."

Damian sighs. There is no tomorrow. It’s easy to forget, but they agreed that this is all they would take from each other. He just never expected to feel so…. taken.

"I am not spent,” he says, continuing to caress Tim. "I'm processing."

"Processing?"

"What you did. It's not an act I had ever conceived of."

"Really?" Tim snickers. Damian doesn’t flinch, but his hand stills, and he’s glad Tim can’t see his face. "Don't give me too much credit, Damian. I didn't invent rimming."

Rimming. Damian makes a mental note.

Tim wriggles. Damian tries to ignore him, still hurt by his casual laughter, but he’s warm and smells good and made Damian come harder than he has in his life and Damian’s treacherous hand starts moving of its own accord.

"You don't watch much porn?"

"Very little," Damian says stiffly. "In that house is hard to shake the feeling you're being watched."

"Mmm, I remember. I bought a burner phone specifically."

Damian shifts. "I wish I'd thought of that," he admits. He tries to rationalise the oversight to himself. "Though it would also be hard to explain the bank transactions."

"Remind me when we get back. I have some stuff I think you'd like; I can set you up with a subscription through one of my accounts, so you don't have to worry about what Bruce might stumble upon. I've double checked the studios, as well, so I'm pretty confident it's all above board."

Damian isn’t sure what the point of porn is, not now he’s got memories to dwell on. Unless Timothy has a third secret identity he’s kept from the family.

It’s a push-pull sort of thought, where Damian both desperately wants it to be so and violently objects to it. To be able to revisit Tim’s body at any time holds a vibrant appeal, but the thought of anyone else in the world being able to do so as well makes him burn with jealousy. He knows it’s only an idle fantasy, but it leaves him so conflicted he shoves the thought away, and discards all contemplation of pornography, starring Tim or otherwise.

"What is it like to perform?” he asks instead, reaching for more material to pad his fantasies with. “Rimming?"

Tim untucks his head from Damian’s chin, and it’s nice to see his face again, though Damian is struck by where precisely that face has been.

"You're thinking about the taste." He hadn’t realised he was grimacing, but when Tim laughs he finds himself relaxing into a smile. "Yeah, is not great, but if your partner keeps themself nice and clean it's not too bad. You're very fastidious."

Tim gives Damian’s arm a congratulatory squeeze and he feels pride welling despite himself. It is ridiculous to be pleased with himself for simply washing well, but Tim’s pleasure still makes him light up.

"It's worth it for the view, though,” Tim goes on. “Watching you get wetter and wetter with nothing but my spit, watching you open up under my tongue, watching you clench as you come."

Damian sees himself through Tim’s eyes at an angle he’s never considered before, and his mouth falls open as his breath starts coming in short pants. His tongue slips out to wet his lips and Tim catches it with his own, mouth sealing around Damian’s.

Damian’s kisses are wet, hot, needy things, all the roiling of his belly, his warring desires, his need to possess and be possessed expressed more eloquently by his tongue in Tim’s mouth than it ever could aloud. There’s still a frisson of disgust about the whole act that stirs something dark in Damian, plucks at the part of him that’s still unsure about the sharing of any body fluids. He was raised by the League, after all. A kiss can be deadly. Any mucus membrane is a weak point in the body’s defenses.

He is willing to be weak in front of Tim.

He breaks the kiss.

"At the end, that wasn't your tongue.”

"No, my finger.” Tim takes Damian’s show of vulnerability in stride. “When I fuck you I'll open you up with my fingers first. Get you ready for me."

Damian shivers.

It occurs to him that no amount of training with Grayson will ever render his body pliable enough to ‘rim’ himself, he is certainly flexible enough to reach with his fingers.

He rearranges himself, drawing Tim close with one arm, continuing to kiss him thoroughly. His reaches his upper arm back, trailing his fingers over his own flesh. He concentrates on the kiss, tying the sensory memories together. Whenever he touches himself like this, he wants to taste Tim on his lips, smell him against his flesh, hear the hitch of breath in his chest as his arousal starts to build.

He traces the curve of his own hip, gliding over the scars and following the line of his pelvis back to point where it meets his spine. His tail bone is a series of hard ridges just under the surface, sensitive in its own way, and he grinds a little harder against Tim as he skims over it.

His first instinct is to go straight for his hole, but he is constructing memories for future use, and he doesn’t want to limit his future fantasies to a linear climax. He traces a line along his cleft, walking his fingers back and forth, while he nips at Tim’s jaw and memorises the feel of stubble against his tongue.

He presses the tip of his index finger against the tight ring of muscle. It’s still damp with Tim’s spit, and he whimpers, but it’s not enough to provide much lubrication and his body resists his intrusion.

Tim runs his hands over Damian’s body and Damian melts against him, sucking at the delicate skin under Tim’s jaw. He doesn’t register where Tim’s hands are going until he feels fingers on his wrist, and though he’s perfectly happy to consider any part of his body as a potential erogenous zone at this point he realises moments too late that he’s triggered Tim’s detective instincts.

"Are you fingering yourself?”

Damian pulls his hand back sharply, but Tim catches hold of his wrist and presses his hand back in place.

"Don't stop," Tim says. "Fuck, baby bat. I want you to feel good. Make yourself feel good for me."

Damian groans, but it’s with irritation, not desire. He doesn’t want to do this himself, not if Tim is willing to do it for him.

"It's not as good as when you did it," he huffs. He reaches for Tim's hand, tries to guide it down between his cheeks, but Tim's too far up the bed to reach.

"You can be just as good for yourself. Trust me."

Damian grits his teeth. He does trust Tim. He trusts him to keep his word and walk away after tonight, and he wants to make the most of every moment they have together.

"Do you do it?” he asks. “On your own?"

"Yes, baby bat."

Damian shivers. His heavy limbs have long since revived and the curling heat in his stomach is pushing its way back through his veins again. The wrung out feeling is morphing into wound up, instead, and his cock twitches against his thigh.

"You like picturing that?" Tim asks.

Damian does. The Tim of his imagination is sprawled out on his bed at the manor, legs hanging off the side. It’s the same angle Damian had the opportunity to admire while he was fellating him, but imaginary Tim has one hand cupping his balls and the other reaching past them.

"Picturing me, thinking of you, baby bat? Thinking of your hole, all wet and ready for me."

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but Tim’s words come from imaginary Tim, saliva-slick fingers circling his own hole. Will Tim think of him after this, the way Damian is going to think of him? Somehow that hadn’t occurred to Damian.

"Tell me what to do," Damian begs. "Tell me how to make myself ready for you."

Tell me how you want to picture me, he wants to say. Tell me you’ll picture me. Tell me this means something to you too.

Tell me you’ve changed your mind, tell me I’m good enough to be worth more than one night.

"Roll on to your back," Tim tells him. "I'll put the pillow back under your hips. It'll help you find the right angle."

Damian obeys immediately. Tim cups his buttocks and lifts him to slide the pillow into place. He pulls Damian’s arm down, cushioning the back of his wrist on the pillow. He spreads Damian’s legs for him, runs his fingers down the curve of Damian’s muscled thighs. The back of his hand brushes Damian’s growing cock as he reaches for Damian’s sack, nudging it up and slightly to the side. Damian looks down his body to see Tim settle back on knees, admiring his work.

Tim’s stroking his own cock, which is flushed and dark against his palm. Damian did that. Damian’s doing that. Tim is looking at him, thinking of him, wants to remember him.

Damian catches his bottom lip between his teeth and imagines himself from Tim’s angle. He presses his finger against the tight ring of muscle, which quivers in anticipation.

"Wait," Tim says. "Let me get the lube."

Damian resists the urge to roll his eyes at Tim’s caution. He can do this. He wants to prove he can do anything Tim wants him to do.

Despite his resolve Damian’s body tenses, and as he forces his finger past his opening he’s disappointed to find it doesn’t feel like Tim’s did.

"Spit dries too quickly," Tim says. "You'll hurt yourself. Be patient for me, baby bat."

He doesn’t want to be patient, not when Tim so clearly needs Damian’s body ready and receptive to him. But his body is hot and his finger is dry and when he tried to push it deeper his body resists.

"Hand."

Damian blinks up to see Tim between his legs, glass bottle unstoppered. His sphincter spasms, pushing his finger back out, and, defeated, he lets his hand fall into Tim’s waiting grasp. Tim’s expression betrays no disappointment, only fondness. It makes Damian feel vulnerable all over again. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such patience from Tim.

Tim massages his hand, oiled fingers rubbing the mound of his thumb and valleys of his knuckles. His movements are unhurried and soothing, and Damian finds himself sinking deeper into the mattress, which has the added bonus of angling his hips higher on the pillow. Tim’s gentle caresses turn to his fingers, giving all of them a thorough coating of oil.

"Good," Tim says, releasing Damian’s hand slowly. Damian circles his wrist and repositions his hand. There’s a wet whisper of skin on skin from where Tim is perched that Damian’s intimately familiar with. Tim is stroking himself, and he’s doing it because he’s looking at Damian.

"Now, that first finger."

This time the finger goes in easily, and he’s almost embarrassed at trying to force it before when there was a much easier path to follow. The digit slides in nail deep, hitting the second ring of muscle. It’s as deep as Tim’s tongue made it, but feels so different. He rocks the finger back and forth.

"How does that feel? Better?" Tim’s words are solicitous but his tone is stern, chiding Damian for not listening to him the first time. Damian’s body responds immediately, back arching. Tim clucks his tongue in approval.

"It’s not as good as your mouth.”

"My mouth is not at your beck and call.”

It’s not what Damian wants to hear, and he pouts at Tim. Tim maintains his serious facade, but there’s a quiver in the corner of his mouth that hints to a carefully restrained smile.

“I want to see you look after yourself, Damian,” Tim goes on. “I want to know when I can't be there you'll still be able to make yourself feel good. Make yourself think of me."

The pout slides from Damian’s mouth. Something like a sob catches in Damian’s throat, even as he keeps working himself closer to orgasm.

"Never think of anyone else again.”

"Promise me.” 

Damian doesn’t understand - he doesn’t understand why Tim sounds so wrecked - he doesn’t understand why Tim is extracting a promise from Damian when he already pledged that Damian would never need to think of anyone else. He doesn’t understand why his whole chest aches.

"I promise, ya amar."

The vow carries more weight than any they’ve made already that day, and all of it presses down on Damian. When he finally manages to find enough space between his ribs to inhale, the breath seems to take forever. His heart throbs, forcing the air back out again. He counts, exhaling for four, holding for four inhaling for four, lost in the sensations. There's no difference between the ferocity of his emotions and the intensity of the physical sensations.

"Are you ready for a second finger?"

Tim’s question brings him back to the present, and he nods.

"Gently, then. Take your first out and ease them in together."

He does as instructed. The increased stretch burns.

"Slowly, baby bat. Be gentle with yourself."

Damian blinks down the length of his body at Tim. He doesn’t know how Tim can tell he’s… not scared, precisely, but apprehensive. He’s intimately familiar with the way his muscles burn when he pushes himself to his limits, and there’s no reason for this stretch to be the cause of any more self-doubt than when Grayson first eased him into a full box split. But Tim is looking at him with though sharp, bright eyes, and Damian desperately wants to please him. If Tim tells him to be gentle, he has no choice but to obey.

"Can you go a little deeper?" Tim asks. "Keep your fingers together. Take a deep breath, and as you exhale push. We're aiming for the first knuckle, but you don't have to get there all in one go."

This is easier than gentleness. Exhale. Push. Reach the designated goal.

"How's that, baby bat? Is it good?"

He’s done what Tim has asked of him, so he feels good, even if he’s not precisely comfortable.

"More lube," Tim says. "Let me have your hand back."

Damian hesitates, not wanting to give up the ground he’s gained, but Tim already has the glass bottle in hand. He treats Damian to another massage, but it’s hastier than the first time. His impatience relights the fire in Damian’s stomach, and as his fingers slide more easily back into his hole Damian smiles to see the spark in Tim’s eyes.

"A little deeper, baby bat,” Tim instructs, voice dropping a register, “then trying bending your fingers. There's a knot of nerves, you just have to find it."

"Prostate," Damian says. He is inexperienced, not ignorant.

"That's right."

Damian squirms, repositioning his arm to find a better angle. He has a mental image of a two dimensional line drawing, straight lines and perfect circles that do nothing to help him navigate his own organs. He lifts his hips and draws his knees further back, shoulder rolling forward and wrist bent as far as the curves of his body will allow it. His fingers slide deeper and deeper, until-

"Ah!"

"You found it."

Tim obvious satisfaction only feeds Damian’s swelling cock as he runs his fingers over the sensitive knot of nerves again and again. He doesn’t take long to establish the precise pressure and motion to please himself, rubbing his fingers back and forth over the spot. He eases a third finger in so he can reach deeper, riding his fingers.

"I could watch you do this all day," Tim says. "You're so beautiful, Damian."

Tim’s words are nearly enough to send him over the edge, but he doesn’t want Tim to just _watch_.

"I want more.” Damian speaks with what little authority he can still muster, voice gravelly with desire. "I want to be full. I want you to fill me up."

"Are you sure, Damian? You can come like this. I could watch you."

Damian presses his face into the mattress as his hips buck, precum leaking onto his belly.

"I want you to fuck me," he says. All authority slips away, and he finds himself begging, "please!"

Tim takes his hips in hand, lifting him bodily from the bed. Damian’s hand slips free and he balls his fists in the sheet. He gets his heels on the edge of the bed and arches into a bridge pose, raising his now empty hole to Tim’s eye level.

"Please," Damian begs again. "Fuck me." 

Tim slips two fingers inside Damian, then three. Damian clutches the sheets and holds still as best he can, eyes fluttering shut. He’s at Tim’s mercy now.

"You've opened yourself up for me so well," he says. "You're so ready for me, aren't you, baby bat?"

Yes, yes he is. All for Tim. Anything for Tim. Anything to hear Tim’s praise.

Tim frees his hand from Damian, drawing a desperate sound from Damian’s throat. He shuffles on the sheets, taking Damian’s ankles and lifting first one and then the other to rest on his shoulders, leaning forward so Damian’s hips are only just off the sheets. Butterflies flicker through Damian’s belly. They’re doing this. This is happening.

His breath catches in his throat. Tim looks up and meets his eyes, offering him a reassuring smile.

“I love you, baby bat.”

He wants to respond in kind, but there’s an unfamiliar sensation at his entrance and all the air leaves him in a rush.

Tim leans forwards, putting an hand on either side of Damian’s head. He’s bracketed in by Tim’s arms and his own legs, folded nearly in half. He’s so very conscious of where they’re joined.

"Okay, baby bat?"

Damian nods.

"Just relax for me. Let know when you're ready."

Relax is the wrong word. His heart is racing and his gut is in knots and he wants to concentrate on every sensation, every split second that passes, so it’s his forever. 

The ache fades to a tolerable burn, an echo of the fire raging inside him, and he knows he’s ready. He tells Tim so.

The ache heightens, and Damian is conscious of every inch of Tim. Tim is reassuring him, but all Damian can hear is the rushing in his ears, in time with the pulse throbbing in his passage. He focuses on his breathing, in for four, hold for four, out for four. In for four, hold for four, out for four.

"I'm there," Tim says. "Talk to me, Damian."

Damian blinks. It’s nothing like his fingers, having Tim inside. He can feel himself stretching to accommodate Tim, moulding to his penis.

"I feel very full,” he says, flexing his sphincters. “I didn't think you were... that big."

Tim chuckles. "You're bigger," he says, but Damian can tell he’s flattered. "If we did this the other way around, I'd have been asking you to be so patient."

"Is it good?" _Am I good?_

"Oh, baby bat, you've no idea. You're so hot and tight. I'm not going to last long, I’m sorry." 

The praise makes Damian’s cock leak between them.

"Touch yourself.”

Damian reaches between them, his knuckles grazing Tim's abs. It’s another point of contact between them and as Damian starts to pump himself his focuses on caressing Tim at the same time. He’s rewarded with a flutter of stomach muscles, Tim’s face dipping closer to his own.

"Can I fuck you, Damian? Can I move?"

"Please, ya amar."

He tightens his legs across Tim’s shoulders and tenses his core, rocking his hips to meet Tim’s as he slides in and out. It takes him a couple of tries to match Tim’s rhythm, and then Tim finds that knot inside him and Damian drives himself onto his cock.

"Harder!" Damian demands.

Tim groans and picks up speed, thrusting so deep into Damian he feels it all the way up his torso, like Tim is tapping directly on his heart. He’s so full. It’s physical, but it’s more than that. He’s never had a connection like this with someone before. He’s not alone. Tim buries himself in Damian, head falling to Damian’s shoulder, and Damian feels him spasm and shoot his essence deep inside him. He did this, he’s doing this, he’s giving this moment to Tim and it’s _theirs_ and they’re _one_ and Damian is following Tim over the edge.

Later, Damian will dwell on how different all three orgasms were: untouched, eaten out, and well fucked. The different stimulations. The different connections with Tim’s body.

Now, though, he feels like he’s run a marathon. His legs ache from being raised for so long. His prostate is throbbing and his balls feel like they’ve been turned inside out. Tim is too heavy on top of him and too big inside him and his hair is in Damian’s face and he’s breathing to a different rhythm and sensory overload is threatening and Damian needs space and he needs it now.

Tim slips out of him and lets Damian’s legs fall to the bed, which relieves the worst feelings of overstimulation, but he settles back down on Damian’s chest. Damian swallows, looping an arm around Tim to secure him in a tolerable position, and stares up at the canopy. Exhaustion tugs at him. As much as he doesn’t want tonight to be over he’s finally ready for it. 

"Now, I'm spent,” he sighs into Tim’s crown.

His husband - a man he holds in the deepest respect, a peer he admires, his companion and mentor, Robin, his one true love - responds by giving him a thumbs up.

A gesture that once condemned men, Damian thinks, is oddly fitting. The old Damian is dead, killed with a multitude of thrusts.

He wonders who he’ll be tomorrow.


	2. What if: they had just told Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, look, there must be a way of breaking the news to him that won’t prompt him to investigate. We just have to take some time and prepare a proper strategy. We don’t want to upset him in any way.”
> 
> “Timothy, you cannot manage father’s emotions for him.”
> 
> “That is literally why I became Robin.” Tim gives a little hiccupping laugh. “It’s Bruce, Damian. Last time he was left to manage his own emotions he decided to dress up as a flying rodent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picking up after the boys join the mile high club on the way home. Unification would have been so much shorter and fluffier!

He shaking as he comes down, his legs barely holding him up. Tim’s hands are still on his hips, and he guides Damian down until he’s sitting on Tim’s lap. Damian collapses over him, presses his face into Tim’s hair, and tries to pretend the sobs still wracking his body are still due to the effort of obeying Tim.

Tim kisses his neck.

“You okay, Damian?”

Damian takes a shaky breath. He is hoping to calm himself enough to reply, but when it comes clear that’s still some time away, he nods into Tim’s hair instead.

Tim reaches up and rubs the back of Damian’s neck.

“Would it help if I told you I don’t know if I am?”

It does, a little.

Damian leans back and looks at Tim. Tim’s eyes are wet, and Damian hates it, hates that he’s done that to Tim. He kisses Tim with his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see how much pain he’s caused him.

Tim’s fingers caress his sides, sliding under his shirt and stroking his ribs. Damian’s trousers are still halfway down his thighs and they’re pinching his flesh. His cum decorates the front of Tim’s waistcoat. Damian wants to frame it as a piece of erotic art.

“Damian,” Tim says. “I love you. I thought I should say it when we’re not mid orgasm. I love you.”

Damian stares at him. He doesn’t know what to say. He loves Tim, he loves him wholeheartedly and it’s terrifying and everything is about to end.

“This can’t end,” he says. His lips are numb, but in the way that immediately precedes a burn.

“It has to, Damian,” Tim says.

“No. Why?” He can’t inhale properly, the air getting caught in the top part of his lungs. They’re teetering on the edge of something.

“Because-”

“We haven’t even made it out of the country, Timothy. We can’t do this.” He shifts on Tim’s lap, pulling his pants back up. This is a conversation that should be had pants-on. “I love you too. Why should we end this if neither of us want to?”

“We agreed, Damian.”

“Would you have made different choices, if we hadn’t done so?” On the one hand, the idea that Tim only deigned to be with him because he had the end in sight is upsetting, but he can still hear Tim’s confession of love ringing in the small space, and if he is honest with himself Damian would have made different choices too if things hadn’t been so fraught, even though he has no regrets about the choices they did make.

“Ra’s _wants_ us to tell everyone, to pressure us to make it legal. We can’t combat him if we’re following his plan.”

“Tt. The most basic kind of reverse psychology.”

Tim’s face goes slack.

“Fuck.”

“Timothy?”

“Fucker! You’re right! He _wants_ us to keep it a secret!”

Tim’s outrage would be amusing under any other circumstances.

“Knowing that,” Damian says, “would it have changed things? Last night?”

Tim shakes his head. “I love you, baby bat. Last night was incredible.”

“But it does not have to be a one off.”

“No.” Tim reaches out slowly to run a single finger along the curve of Damian’s cheek. There’s a slow smile tugging at his lips, but he’s still lacking confidence.”But… God, Damian. Do you really mean it?” His breath catches. “This is… I mean, what do we _do_? Are we dating? Do we move in together? Do I take you to prom? What do we actually tell people? What if Bruce re-adopts me? How do we- how do we tell him?”

His hand drops and his gaze falls to a midpoint in Damian’s chest. Damian misses the contact, so he extends a hand instead and cups Tim’s chin. Tim leans into his palm.

“How do we tell him?” he asks again. “Bruce is going to be so confused.”

“You’re not planning to tell him that we…” Damian stares at his lover, aghast.

“What? No! God no. I’ve never told Bruce anything about my sex life and I’m definitely not going to tell him how beautiful his barely legal son is when he comes oh god you’ve been legal all of five minutes Bruce is going to flip.” Tim’s eyes are as wide as Damian’s. “We can’t tell him. We can’t tell him anything. He’ll _know_.”

Damian scowls. “I am, as you so eruditely point out, legal. What I choose to do with my body is none of father’s business.”

“He’s _Batman_. Everything is his business.” Tim sighs. “Okay, look, there must be a way of breaking the news to him that won’t prompt him to investigate. We just have to take some time and prepare a proper strategy. We don’t want to upset him in any way.”

“Timothy, you cannot manage father’s emotions for him.”

“That is literally why I became Robin.” Tim gives a little hiccupping laugh. “It’s Bruce, Damian. Last time he was left to manage his own emotions he decided to dress up as a flying rodent.”

“And we both elected to wear a handed down circus costume.” Damian leans in to kiss Tim. He feels Tim smile against his lips. “I don’t want to put this off, ya amar. The longer we wait the more complicated telling him becomes, because then we must provide an explanation for our secrecy as well.”

He leans back to see how Tim takes his statement. He looks apprehensive, but he smiles for Damian and gives a small nod.

“I love you, baby bat. I trust you to take the lead on this.”

Something unknots itself in Damian’s chest. He loves Tim, and Tim loves him. He doesn’t have to take it back. It’s not ending.

“I love you too.”

#

Bruce is relieved to see both his sons on the tarmac. They’re walking unaided with no visible signs of injury. Tim’s hands are tucked behind his back and Damian’s are at his side, but their shoulders are brushing together. Both of them look tired and rumpled.

Bruce wants to gather them into his arms and hold them tight. He’d thought he’d lost both of them. Or one of them at least, which would be worse in its own way. He’s lost hours to fantasies of Damian carrying Tim or Tim carrying Damian, the way he’d had to carry Jason. Grief is hell, but guilt is worse. To hold the body that once had so much warmth and life in it, to feel the person slip away and then the hope, the cold press of what was once flesh and is now just meat.

Damian extends a nervous hand. Bruce takes it in both of his. Damian’s grip is warm and firm and alive. Bruce extends the handshake to Damian’s forearm, just for the excuse to pull him a little closer.

When he looks over Tim is giving him a knowing look. Tim’s always positioned himself on the outside looking in, giving himself a unique vantage point over the rest of the family. Bruce feels more transparent than he likes under Tim’s piercing gaze, but it’s reassuring as well.

He needs to bring Tim back in from the outside. He’s let the adoption thing run on too long, and that Tim is here now, allowing Bruce to meet him, is a concession he doesn’t deserve.

He lets go of Damian and reaches for Tim. Tim hesitates briefly, but meets Bruce in the middle.

“It’s good to see you both well,” Bruce says.

“I know,” Tim says. “You too.”

“Are you coming back to the manor with us?”

Tim nods. “If I’m welcome.”

“You’re always welcome.” Bruce frowns. “You know that.”

Tim glances at Damian, and his mouth twists. “Tell me that again later,” he says, amused by himself.

Damian scowls at him.

They’ve been getting on well recently, and Bruce doubts that Damian is the reason Tim is unsure of his welcome, but maybe Ra’s has resown those seeds of discontent between them. If that’s the worst of his manipulations, Bruce will count himself very lucky.

Bruce leads them to the car, where Alfred waits. He slips into the front seat, leaving the boys to share the back.

Once the doors are shut and the outside world is sealed off, Bruce adjusts the vanity mirror in the sun visor to look at his robins.

“I am very glad that both of you are safe, but your actions were reckless, Damian. You put both your lives at risk when you failed to inform anyone of your destination. Black Bat wasted time and resources looking for you in Nepal. Nightwing and Red Hood were also put on alert.”

“I will thank all of them,” Damian says. “I apologise for my oversight.”

“We’re glad you both made it back hale and hearty,” Pennyworth says.

“We are,” Bruce says. “Of course we are. I worry about both of you, even when it’s someone like Ra’s, whose motivations generally involve keeping you alive, not knowing where you are is… frightening. Not knowing where to go to find you, if I could get to you in time.”

Tim sighs. “We know. _I_ know. My tendency to… fall off the radar… when I’m focused on other things hasn’t helped. I was lucky Damian noticed I was missing when he did.”

“Your tendency to disable my tracking devices, you mean,” Bruce growls. “I place them for your safety.”

“And I remove them for my privacy. Besides, I wasn’t Red Robin when he took me.”

“If you had allowed me to place the subdermal-”

“Then Ra’s could use it to track me too. There is no way to secure a device thoroughly enough while maintaining a strong enough signal to track over a practical distance. We’ve been through this. Look, I’m not arguing that I didn’t partly bring this on myself, but-”

“You didn’t!” Damian’s temper flares, and Bruce twists in his seat to glare at his youngest. Damian ignores him. “Grandfather’s interest is not your fault.”

Tim puts a hand over Damian’s, uncurling the fist his brother had unconsciously balled it into. It’s a curiously intimate gesture for the two of them.

“I know,” Tim says soothingly. “And hopefully, after… everything, his interest will take a different bent. Still, I know I tend to disappear into myself, and I know it’s not good for me, so I’m going to make an effort, okay? To stay engaged.”

Damian’s lips quirk. “I will hold you to that,” he says. He’s amused, but there’s also a gravitas to his words Bruce can’t read.

“What happened in Turkey?”

The boys exchange another look. Tim’s still holding Damian’s hand.

“A lot,” Tim says. “Probably best to wait until we get back to the manor.”

“Tt.” 

Tim squeezes Damian’s hand, but Bruce’s youngest gives him a scathing look.

“When we get back, Damian,” Tim says. “Please.” He leans in, raising a hand to cover his mouth so Bruce can’t lipread, and whispers something in Damian’s ear.

Damian purses his lips, but eventually concedes he point. “I will hold you to that, as well,” he says, loud enough for the whole car to hear.

Tim sighs and rolls his eyes, letting go of Damian’s hand and settling back into his own side of the back seat.

“I’m sure you will,” he says.

#

He remembers how his mother always used to deliver the news that she and Jack were going travelling again: like she was sharing something with Tim he’d be happy about. Months alone in the house were supposed to be his DisneyWorld, freedom that most children his age couldn’t dream of.

He’d figured it out by the time he was seven. He’d figured out to play along by the time he turned eight.

He’d tried to turn it about on her once, when he was ten, and had to suffer his mother’s amusement.

It worked on his dad, though, and it worked on Dick, and at countless executive board meetings.

Tim knows, rationally, that it’s very unlikely to work on Bruce, but it’s the only weapon he’s got in his arsenal. He resents Damian forcing his hand like this, but if they are going to pursue a relationship instead of a one night stand he has to learn to compromise. 

He’s not good at compromise.

He’s not good at relationships.

This whole thing is wrong and weird and backwards and terrifying. He’s said things to Damian he would never have voiced if he’d known it was going to last more than one night. He’s allowed himself to be vulnerable and needy and demanding and dorky and all the things he’d never dream of being on a first date. And now they’re telling Bruce, before they’ve even tested how things are going to work.

Damian’s agreed to wait until after dinner, at least. Tim’s decided they’re going to have this conversation in the study. It’s a good place for serious conversations, but the civilian kind. They need Bruce to focus on them as Tim and Damian, not Red and Robin. Take the emphasis off Ra’s and place it on their growing closeness. Frame it as something to celebrate.

Which is why he’s taking a little detour to grab a bottle of something celebratory and a bucket on his way through the house. He and Damian have both made their excuses to shower and change before dinner, with Alfred’s blessing. Damian has been dispatched to make small talk with his father about how they’re going to explain his absence at school, while Tim sneaks into the cellar.

He’s halfway back up the cellar stairs when a shadow falls over him.

“Sparkling wine, Master Tim?”

Tim looks down at the bottle in his hand. He’s grabbed the first thing from the shelf. “We’ve, uh. We’ve got news - definitely ‘fizz’ level news - but I felt like champagne was laying it on a bit thick.”

Alfred takes the bottle from him and frowns at it. “This was a gift from Master Dick-”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I’ll put it back.”

“-Texan sparkling wine drink,” the old man continues as though Tim hadn’t spoken. “Unless we are celebrating a negative STD test, we can do better.”

“Alfred!” Tim’s jaw drops. Oh his god, no one is ever going to believe this. He can never tell anyone Alfred said this because no one will believe him.

“Well?”

“No!”

Alfred puts the bottle back in its place. There’s a faded card bent into a U shape in the wine rack that Tim didn’t notice before. For all Alfred’s dry humour, the wine drink clearly has a sentimental value that shouldn’t be wasted.

Alfred selects something dustier and holds it out for Tim’s inspection.

“That looks great, Alfred.” Tim sighs. “Can you put it in Bruce’s study? For after dinner?”

“Champagne is an aperitif. As is good news, in my experience. Will you accompany me to the lounge?”

Why is everyone rushing him? Why won’t anyone give him time to prepare for this? He needs more prep time. He needs to carefully manipulate Bruce’s mood, and prepare note cards for all possible questions and challenges, and really, isn’t he owed at least one run through in front of a mirror?

“Now?”

But he’s talking to Alfred’s back.

Tim trails after him, feeling more like a naughty schoolboy than a recently married man.

Damian and Bruce are sitting at opposite ends of the sofa. The room is laid out like something from Downtown Abbey, with a drinks cabinet and a load of overstuffed chairs all facing each other instead of something sensible like a TV, and a rug that basically acts as a red carpet to the dining room.

“Champagne?” Bruce frowns.

“Apparently we have something to celebrate.”

Damian’s eyes snap wide. Tim tries to convey… he doesn’t know what he wants to convey, but his eyebrows apparently have their own idea and he’s willing to let them semaphore SOS behind Alfred’s back. It’s like he’s coming out all over again, except this time he can’t persuade himself his fear is irrational. Bruce is definitely going to be upset about this.

“So.” Damian looks from Tim to Bruce.

Alfred gets a set of flutes from the cabinet and stands patiently, hand on the cork.

“So.” Tim shrugs helplessly at Damian. “We wanted to tell you what happened in Turkey.”

“Now?”

“Apparently.”

Damian pats the seat next to him, and Tim bolts for it. He sits straightbacked and stiff, a careful inch between him and Damian, but it’s still an improvement on standing in the middle of the room. It’s less portentous. He feels more like he’s speaking to Bruce as an equal.

“Ra’s wanted Damian to come after me. He arranged things so Damian would be the first to notice I was missing, and the only one available to come after me.”

Bruce frowns. “He wasn’t the only one looking for you. The whole family has been combing the globe.”

Tim remembers Bruce saying so in the car, but he hadn’t given it much weight. 

“But… it’s the anniversary of Jason’s death and Ra’s arranged an Arkham breakout,” he says.

“Nevertheless,” Alfred breaks in, “your disappearance was our priority. And always will be.”

Tim manages a weak smile, but the voice in the back of his head is insisting that Alfred is addressing Damian; there’s no way Bruce would demand the family drop everything just for Tim. He tells himself it was a cumulative effect, that it was because it was both of them. He should check with Steph to see if Bruce called her in. She’ll be honest with him.

Damian puts a hand on Tim’s thigh. Tim tries to swallow, but it’s weirdly difficult. He glances at Damian, and it hits him that Damian came for him. Damian dropped everything to come for him. 

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Grandfather intended for me to find Tim as the culmination of a longer term scheme.” Damian squeezes Tim’s leg. “He has taken credit for a variety of recent events. The only one I can entirely credit is the voiding of Tim’s adoption, but it’s possible that the recent crime surge is due in part to his interference.”

“Ra’s was behind the adoption paperwork?” Bruce glances at Tim. “You posited it had something to do with Wayne Enterprises.”

“It didn’t,” Tim says, finding his voice again. “I mean, if things had gone differently he’d probably have claimed it did and got something out of it, but it was important to him that Damian and I stop being siblings in the eyes of the law.”

“Why.” Bruce’s eyes are narrowed and his tone is flat. They can’t string this out any longer.

“So we can be married in the eyes of the law.”

“Married.”

Tim entwines his hand with Damian’s and holds it up, showing the engagement ring Ra’s forced on him.

“Congratulations to us?” His voice breaks mid sentence, and he’s squeezing Damian’s hand so tight his knuckles are visibly white, but Damian, to his credit, only returns the firm grip.

Damian lowers their joined hands.

“We are married in the eyes of the league, and grandfather intends for us to be legally married as soon as feasible.”

“Not until after Damian graduates from high school.” Tim regrets the clarification as soon as it’s out of his mouth. Bruce’s frown shifts up a gear into a full glower.

“You. Are. Not. Married.”

Tim wants to agree, wants to appease Bruce, wants to take everything back, but Damian’s fingers are still entwined with his and he feels the phantom throb of the palm wound they shared during the ceremony.

“We consider ourselves married,” Damian says. Tim wonders if he feels the same pulse where their hands are joined.

“This has been coming for a while,” he says. “It’s not how we would have chosen to begun a relationship, but there’s a spark that’s nothing to do with Ra’s and his scheming. And, honestly, it takes some of the pressure off, having already made a significant commitment to each other.”

Bruce makes a strangled noise. Tim can see the whites of his eyes. His gaze is fixed on where Damian’s thumb is soothingly caressing Tim’s knuckles.

Oh god. Does Bruce know what a league wedding entails? Did he league-marry Talia?

Is he imagining them having sex?

“You’re both too young to-” Oh god. Bruce is imagining them having sex. Bruce is going to say something about them having sex. “-to make such a commitment.”

Tim lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Nevertheless,” Damian says, “we have done so.”

“If I may make an observation,” Alfred says, “both of you are more comfortable with structure and planning than the spontaneity of modern relationships. Arranged marriages remain a core tenet of many societies, and where both spouses are supportive and communication is good, they are frequently successful.”

“Damian is a _child_. He’s still in school!” Bruce is on his feet, stalking across the carpet towards Alfred. He’s drawn up to his full, threatening height, all his anger and confusion tuned on the older man to distract himself from the real targets. It’s the same kind of deflection that means the Joker lives while the GCPD quake in their boots. He’s _too_ angry to risk turning on Tim and Damian. They know it. Bruce knows it. Alfred knows it.

Alfred stands still, his gaze locked firmly on Bruce's.

He pops the champagne cork.

“I am quite sure Master Timothy will be respectful Damian’s youth, as Master Damian will respect Timothy’s mental health. Pass me the champagne flutes, Master Bruce.”

Bruce stops in front of Alfred, chest heaving.

“We are going to celebrate this joyous occasion. Pass me the flutes.”

Bruce grits his teeth.

Alfred narrows his eyes.

“We are going to celebrate. Any matrimonial advice you wish to mete out can wait until it is asked for.”

Damian squeezes Tim’s hand as they wait. It’s the longest silence Tim can remember in this room. He can feel Damian quivering beside him, desperate to cut the tension, but Tim holds his hand just as tightly back. Now is time to be quiet. Everything that needs to be said has been, and now the weight of the silence is pressing down on Bruce heaviest of them all.

Bruce snatches the tray of champagne flutes from the lazy susan and thrusts it at Alfred.

Alfred beams at him.

“Thank you, Master Bruce. Will you do the honours?” 

Bruce finds himself holding the champagne while Alfred has the tray, a strange kind of sleight of hand.

Bruce pours four flutes.

“I understand Master Jason has already returned to Gotham. Perhaps if I reach out to them immediately, the others will make it back before the end of the night and we can celebrate as a family.” Alfred swaps the tray for the bottle again, and takes a flute for himself. He raises it in the direction of the sofa, then backs out of the room, leaving Bruce to serve his sons.

It’s a masterclass in how to handle Bruce, and Tim really wishes he’d been able to take notes.

Bruce holds the tray out stiffly. Tim takes two glasses, handing one to Damian.

“You _will_ respect each other, as Alfred described,” Bruce says. “I know what makes a League wedding binding, and I won’t have it under my roof, do you understand? _Or_ under the roof of your apartment, Tim.”

“It’s legal,” Damian objects, with a pout that completely undermines his point.

Tim can’t hide his smile. “It’s okay, Damian. Things are going to be pretty complicated for a while, and it’ll be easier if we’re only navigating one thing at a time.”

Damian turns wounded eyes on Tim.

“It’s only a few months until you graduate, baby bat.”

“That’s not the point. We are both adults and it is a consenting relationship. Father should not get to dictate-”

“You live under my roof, you live by my rules.”

Damian’s head snaps around, eyes flashing. “You can’t hold that over me. I’m _married_. I will simply move in with _my husband_.”

Bruce reels back. “Tim is not your husband! He is your brother.”

“I’m really not, and everything is going to go a lot easier if you let go of that idea,” Tim says. “We were never brothers, Bruce, not like me and Dick, or Damian and Dick. And he’s right, we’re both adults. Our adult relationship has been… developing… along different lines.”

Bruce swallows. “You’re my _children_.”

Tim twists the stem of the champagne glass in his fingers, dislodging a flurry of bubbles that rush to the surface.

“Yes, we are. And we both love you. Which is why we’re going to respect your wishes.”

“Tt. You can’t unilaterally decide that for both of us.”

“Oh? Well, if I’m not having sex with you, who are you going to be having sex with?” Tim arches an eyebrow.

Damian splutters, and Tim’s heart grows three sizes. He’s not scared to tease Damian any more, not when it’s rewarded with a shy blush and a frown Damian can barely hold on to. Damian’s his _husband_.

He leans in and presses a quick kiss to Damian’s pout.

“I want to do this properly,” Tim says. “I want a first date, and a second, and a hundred more, and all those silly micro-anniversaries. I want to hold your hand under a restaurant table, to share a milkshake with two straws in a diner, to go on bunch dates and lunch dates and midnight mid-patrol dates. I want lingering goodbye kisses on the doorstep, phone conversations where we both wait for the other to hang up first, to text you before I’m even halfway home. I want to come here and pick you up for prom and take photos and have matching buttonholes. I want all the milestones Ra’s would have had us skip over.”

“I… I want that too. But-” Damian’s eyes, round and wet and lit from within with something halfway between desperation and wonder, drop to the champagne in Tim’s hand. “Can we really have that?”

Do we deserve that, Tim hears, and he understands.

“Yes,” he promises. “Yes, we can.”

“Bahlem feek, ya amar.”

“Bar… Oh, baby bat, you have to teach me Arabic.”

A small smile graces Damian’s lips, and he looks up at Tim through his lashes.

“You know what it means.”

“I love you.” Tim catches himself. “I mean, _I _love _you_.”__

__“Bahlem feek.” Damian leans forward and catches Tim’s lips with his own._ _

__The door slams open._ _

__Tim jerks back, looking round to see Dick standing in the quivering frame, still in costume. Jason is behind him, and there’s the thunder of footsteps in the corridor beyond that Tim recognises as Steph’s._ _

__“Alfred told us to come,” Dick says. He’s looking at Bruce, and Tim realises he hasn’t got clear sight of the sofa._ _

__Damian can’t see past Bruce either, and though he must have heard Dick he seems completely unconcerned by the intrusion. His free hand comes up to tangle in Tim’s hair and demand his full attention, turning Tim’s hand back to face his. Tim’s mouth slips open and Damian presses his advantage. Tim forgets the new arrivals as his tongue wars with Damian’s and heat blooms within him._ _

__He breaks the kiss before it can get too heated. He leans his head against Damian’s for a moment, catching his breath._ _

__“Timothy? Will you… go out with me?”_ _

__Tim’s smile nearly splits his face. He wants desperately to lean in for another kiss, but he’s abruptly aware of a change in the atmosphere._ _

__The light has changed, and he realises Bruce is no longer casting a shadow over them. The room has fallen quiet apart from the trickling sound of plaster crumbling from the wall where the door handle has left a dent._ _

__A wolf whistle splits the silence, so piercing it makes both Tim and Damian flinch._ _

__Steph’s arrived, then._ _

__“What’s going on?” Dick stares at them._ _

__“Alfred has asked you here to celebrate.” Bruce’s voice isn’t quite level. Is he still angry? No, it’s something else. “It’s not under ideal circumstances, but apparently Ra’s took it upon himself to conduct a wedding.”_ _

__#_ _

__Bruce is lost and confused. Everything has spiralled out of his control and he’s furious with himself for letting it go so far. Ra’s stole his children and smashed them together like a child with Barbie dolls. And now they’re sat here telling Bruce that it’s a good thing. That Ra’s has somehow intuited something inevitable, that he has pushed them down the path they planned to walk._ _

__He doesn’t know how to tell them in a way they’ll understand that they’re still under Ra’s spell. It will wear off in time, and then what will they do? If they still think they’re married?  
Damian is talking about sleeping with Tim, living with Tim, legally wedding Tim. Things he can’t take back, can’t undo._ _

__Has already done._ _

__He wants to rage at them for their mistakes. He wants to take back control and fix this for them, to soothe Damian’s rage and calm Tim’s fears and show them that their father will keep them safe. But Tim turns his back on him, takes Damian’s hands in his, and starts reeling off the most romantic list Bruce has ever heard. Damian’s anger evaporates and he melts for Tim, staring into his eyes with wonder and apprehension, like he can’t believe someone could want to spend time with him like that._ _

__Bruce is impotent, forgotten, unneeded._ _

__He feels like he’s intruding, even though they started this conversation for his benefit._ _

__He steps back. He can’t take his eyes off them._ _

__“I want lingering goodbye kisses on the doorstep,” Tim says, “phone conversations where we both wait for the other to hang up first, to text you before I’m even halfway home.”_ _

__Bruce’s ribs are too small for his lungs. He’s jealous, desperately jealous._ _

__No, not jealous. Not precisely, no covetously. Of course he wants his children to be happy. And if it’s with each other, he’ll learn to live with that. But if they offer each other the world, what’s left for Bruce to give them? They’ll move out and move on and move away from him._ _

__“I want that too,” Damian murmurs._ _

__Tim didn’t get to go to prom. Bruce had been looking forward to it, the first one since Dick’s. He hadn’t gone to prom, already travelling Europe when his peers were fussing with buttonholes and sharing limos. He lost Jason. Dick had left. He’d been happy to let Tim have his own life with his own family, his other father to pat him on the shoulder and share words of wisdom and gift him hand-me-down cufflinks, even if Jack Drake fell short on so many counts._ _

__He hated the pain Tim had gone through to come to him, but it was so important to him to give Tim everything his father had failed to. Having another man to measure up against instead of a childhood memory was easier, somehow. Jack Drake wasn’t the golden figment of John Grayson or the nightmare figure of Willis Todd. He’d known precisely which tux he’d have pressed Tim to wear, which cufflinks from Thomas Wayne’s collection, which rose from Alfred’s garden. He’d hoped Tim and Stephanie would work it out in time to go together, despite his meddling. He’d made notes about what he’d say, and which car he’d lend Tim._ _

__He’d been looking forward to it._ _

__Instead Bruce had died, and Tim had dropped out of school to take over Wayne Enterprises._ _

__Tim paints a picture of himself and Damian in tuxedos, matching corsages, posing for photos at the bottom of the stairs. It’s shocking for it’s mundanity. No deaths, no villains, no crises; just two boys on a prom date. All of Tim’s wishlist is beautiful in it’s normality, and Bruce heart aches that his boys have been denied that in so many parts of their lives._ _

__Ra’s has tried to do it again, forcing them into an arranged marriage._ _

__Talia had taken Bruce to a league wedding at Nanda Parbat. It had been an intense experience even as a guest. The ritual battle, the death and resurrection of the couple, the emphasis on eternity. It’s not something to be taken lightly. The next day evidence of the consummated marriage was put on display the next morning. Not a bloodstained sheet - though Talia had told him they used to - but vials of genetic material, gathered from the bedchamber._ _

__Somewhere in Turkey Ra’s has vials of Bruce’s sons’ genetic material. Do they know that? While they whisper sweet nothings back and forth in two languages on Bruce’s sofa, is Ra’s crafting himself a new heir?_ _

__The door smacks into the wall, making Bruce flinch. Nightwing stands framed by the doorway, arms spread in supplication and legs braced to launch himself into the room. Always in motion but always posing, like a series of still images in a zoetrope. Always a performer._ _

__“Alfred told us to come.”_ _

__Jason looms behind Dick. He doesn’t look comfortable, but he doesn’t look out of place, either. The manor is his home in a fundamental way, a place that changed him and made him. He rejects it all the more violently because it is his to reject._ _

__Bruce steps forwards. He raises both hands, drawing attention to the champagne flute._ _

__Behind him Tim and Damian continue to murmur endearments to each other - how do they have pet names already? - as more of his children are herded into the room by Alfred. His family is so large now._ _

__Bruce steps aside so the others can see the boys are home safe. It’s not ideal timing, since it turns out they are in a passionate embrace, but it certainly gets the point across._ _

__“What’s going on?” Dick’s jaw is hanging open. Behind him Jason is smirking, and Stephanie let’s rip with a wolf whistle that makes all the crystal in the room ring._ _

__“Alfred has asked you here to celebrate.” Bruce pushes a glass into Dick’s slack hand, holding it until instinct kicks in and Dick’s fingers curl around the stem._ _

__Steph reaches around him to grab one for herself, and throws the contents down her throat with a manic grin on her face._ _

__Bruce suspects she’s just won another bet._ _

__“It’s not under ideal circumstances,” he goes on, passing a glass to Jason while Alfred tops up Stephanie’s glass, “but apparently Ra’s took it upon himself to conduct a wedding.”_ _

__“But… how?” Dick stares at them. “Have you screened them for toxins?”_ _

__The thought has occurred to him, but under the circumstances he’s not keen to put it to the boys. After they’ve toasted he’ll be able to analyse the traces on their glasses, though, so he doesn’t need to arouse their suspicion._ _

__“Tt. We are under no influence.” Damian’s temper flares and he’s on his feet. If anything he’s angrier at Dick than he was at Bruce. He’s not sure if that’s reassuring or hurtful. Does Dick’s opinion matter more to Damian still?_ _

__Damian draws himself up to his full height, looming over his older brother. “You are invited to _celebrate_ with us, Grayson. If you do not wish to, you are welcome to leave the way you came in.”_ _

__Dick looks stunned. “But-”_ _

__“Hold your tongue, or go.”_ _

__It’s reassuring, Bruce decides. At the very least it’s the lesser of two evils. If he plays this right he can be the good guy._ _

__Dick will understand. It’s just a little good cop bad cop._ _

__Bruce hides a smirk behind his champagne. “They’ve been very clear, chum,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I am persuaded that the emotion is genuine, and I congratulate them.”_ _

__Dick splutters. Damian shoots his father a distrustful look._ _

__Bruce raises his glass. “To the new adventure Tim and Damian are embarking on.”_ _

__“To Tim and Damian,” Alfred echoes._ _

__Jason raises his glass and nods. After a beat, Dick lifts his too._ _

__“To the most fucked up family I know,” Steph says. “Love you all, can’t wait to see Vicki Vale’s headline.”_ _

__“Oh,” Tim says, “fuck.”_ _


	3. Domesticity 1: Cleaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a google doc with half a dozen of these in, half finished, because I still can't actually write a "they get new personas" chapter. So I'm skipping that, and references to it, and just finishing off some of the bits I've got. This fic was originally conceived as a "five fights they had before the wedding and one they didn't have at it", before I decided to rewrite some of the original chapters and make it a catch all, so I've got a bunch of slightly angsty shorts (less than five, currently) in which our boys fail to communicate their needs well and learn and grow from the experiences.

“Drake!”

Tim jerks from his position at the computer. He spins in the chair, halfway to his feet before Damian’s greeting really registers with him.

“You’re back.” It ought to be an exclamation of joy, but Damian is standing at the bottom of the secret elevator, glaring at him. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Damian says, but his lips are drawn in a tight, thin line. “Ya amar, tell that pizza box is not the same one that was there when I left.”

It’s not a question. It’s very clearly the same pizza box. The term of affection softens the accusation, but only slightly.

Of course, it’s not just a pizza box. It’s five empty six packs of Red Bull, three chinese take out boxes, an expired carton of milk, an overflowing trash can, a sink full of dirty dishes, and a washer full of damp sheets that have been there since Damian put the machine on before he left. It’s a thin layer of dust that’s gathered on the electronics, pet hair on all of the soft furnishings, dried out cat food smeared across the floor.

It’s the fact that Marie Kondo is playing on the big tv in the den area loud enough to keep Tim company on the opposite side of the cave.

Tim stands slowly, and walks over to Damian.

“You promised you were going to throw that out the day I left.” Damian voice is low and angry. There’s no welcome back kiss, no hello hug. 

His fiance has stitches over his left eyebrow and a yellowing black eye. His uniform is stained and torn, and he’s got two fingers strapped together on his right hand. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“I asked you to do one thing,” Damian says.

That isn’t true, and before he can stop himself Tim blurts that out. “You asked me to cover with your studygroup, which I did, finish the prep work on the smuggling case, which I did, and call the Gallery and book the band, which I did.” He ticks things off on his fingers.

“That pizza box has been there for a week! It takes twenty seconds to-”

“You could have done it before you left.”

“You said you were going to do it!”

“I was going to! You don’t have to nag me like a child, Damian.”

“Tt!”

Damian pushes past Tim. He limps as he walks, but he still manages to out stride Tim. He grabs the trash, lifting the current bag out one handed and knotting it with a twist of his hand. He sweeps the entire contents of the kitchen counter into the bin and drops it at Tim’s feet.

“There,” he says. “It’s done.”

“Damian, I-”

Damian’s head whips around. Marie Kondo is holding someone’s high school memorabilia and asking if it sparks joy. “You watch _that _, and live like _this_. Does it make you happy, Drake? Is this how you enjoy living? Perhaps I should leave you in peace in your little garbage dump, and stop _nagging_ you.”__

__“I’m sorry I had more important things on my mind than a fucking pizza box, Damian.”_ _

__“But I don’t, is that it? I am your maid, running around after you while you do ‘important things’. I am your little housewife while you win the bread at Drake Industries. Is that who I am to you? Is that why you are marrying me, to keep house for you?”_ _

__Damian runs his bare finger across the surface and shoves the greasy imprint in Tim’s face._ _

__Tim reels back. “I’m sorry I don’t meet your standards! I’m sorry I put so much effort into holding things together while you’re gone that I let the dusting slip!”_ _

__“If this is how you want to live, I will leave you to it! You have obviously been having such a wonderful time while I have been fighting for the fate of the world.”_ _

__“Of course I don’t want you to fucking leave, Damian! You only just got back! I missed you!”_ _

__“I missed you too! I did not miss the pizza box!” Damian’s hands are balled into fists at his sides and his whole body is quivering. “Am I not worth making such a small effort for? Does this pizza box spark more joy for you than I do?”_ _

__TIm catches his breath. There are tears in his eyes and he’s not sure why. It’s just an old pizza box._ _

__“You were gone for a whole week,” he says, voice breaking despite his best efforts to control it. “You said it was going to be two days, and it was a whole week, and I didn’t know when you were coming back.”_ _

__He hasn’t slept properly alone in their bed. He even let Pennyworth join him, though the old cat needed help getting in and out and is increasingly incontinent now._ _

__“I was fantasising about coming back as soon as I stepped out of that door,” Damian says. “This is not the homecoming I wanted.”_ _

__“It’s not what I wanted for you either,” Tim says. “I meant to clean up, I did.”_ _

__“But it was not a priority.”_ _

__It wasn’t a priority, not like Drake Industries or fighting crime or wedding planning or holding the shreds of his mental health together enough to just get out of bed each day._ _

__Tim looks down at this hands. They blur with unshed tears. He blinks them back and looks up again to see Damian crossing his arms tightly. It’s a protective movement, but it doesn’t stop the bat part of Tim’s brain seeing Damian’s chest hitch even as most of Tim’s head is taken up with blind panic about where this fight is taking them, and whether there’s any way back from there. He’s hurt Damian and he wants to protect him, but he doesn’t even know how to protect himself from such a strange, small trigger. It’s like failing to swat a mosquito and waking up with malaria._ _

__“I love you,” Tim says in a small voice._ _

__Damian looks away._ _

__Tim bites his lip to keep from saying anything else._ _

__“I do not feel loved,” Damian says eventually, voice carefully measured, “when you demonstrate how far I slip down your priorities when I am not here to assert myself amongst them.”_ _

__“I know,” Tim says. “I know that’s what this looks like, but it’s not. It was the last thing you said to me before leaving. You said: ‘ana bahebak, ya amar. Please make sure that box is gone by the time I get back’. You can check on the security footage.” Now the tears start to escape, and Tim has to stop to scrub at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Every time I passed the kitchen I saw it, and at first it was funny, that the last thing you said to me was about a pizza box, and then I heard you were stuck on Thanagar, and it wasn’t funny any more. I had to stop thinking about it.”_ _

__Damian gives him a flat stare. His mouth is a tight line, his whole body is taught. His breath whistles through his nose, and it’s this that gives away that he’s really sobbing. Dry eyed, clear headed, but overwhelmed by emotion._ _

__“Timothy.”_ _

__“I know,” he says. “I’m making excuses.”_ _

__“Tim.”_ _

__“I don’t want you to ever think I don’t love you, Damian. That you’re not my number one priority. I know I’ve failed you, and I understand if.. If…”_ _

__Damian sighs heavily. He uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on Tim’s shoulders._ _

__“You are catastrophizing, ya amar,” he says. “Listen to yourself.”_ _

__“I know it’s not about the pizza box. I mean, it is. But it isn’t.” Tim really appreciates that Damian’s touching him for the first time since he got home. It’s grounding. Damian is trying to ground him. “I’m sorry I’m making this all about me.”_ _

__“I will bear in mind in future,” Damian says, “to make sure my parting line is something less fraught. But Timothy, look around. This is not a single pizza box left out to grow mould.”_ _

__“I know.”_ _

__“I should have said ‘look after yourself’. I _meant_ look after yourself. It scares me, Timothy, to go away and come back and find you like this again. You are the most precious thing in my life, and when you don’t take care of yourself, it is hard not to take it personally.”_ _

__Damian pulls him in tight against his body and Tim goes limp. He hasn’t showered in three days and he regrets it now. He should have showered. He should have tidied the cave and made dinner and given Damian the homecoming he deserves._ _

__He doesn’t want to take care of himself. He wants Damian to take care of him. He knows when Damian’s not there he should make the effort, for him, but the idea that one day Damian might not be there forever, that Tim would have to make the effort forever without Damian… His mind revolts at the idea, and the sheer strength of “don’t want to” bleeds into the here and now and he just, sort of, pre-emptively doesn’t want to._ _

__He’s disappearing inside his own head again, he can feel it, and he makes a conscious effort to draw himself back._ _

__“I’m sorry I’m such hard work,” he says._ _

__“That is an apology you owe yourself,” Damian says. “Timothy, I cannot accept that I am solely responsible for your wellbeing. I need you to shoulder your share.”_ _

__“As well as a share of yours,” Tim says._ _

__He feels Damian swallow, his chest rising and falling against Tim’s cheek._ _

__“Yes. I need you to.” Damian tightens his arms around Tim. “I’m sorry I snapped. It’s been a hard week without you. Seeing you in this state when I got here, when I felt so bad for leaving, it was too much. I need you.”_ _

__Tim pulls back and looks up at him._ _

__Damian is here. He’s sore, and tired, and sad, and he needs Tim. This is a problem he can solve, a series of tasks to complete something he can put his mind to and let the constantly spinning wheels finally gain traction in a useful direction._ _

__“You should shower and change,” Tim says. “I will clean the kitchen and order take out from the Thai place. I’ll tidy up the den area while you pick up the take out. I’ll take a shower, and we’ll eat it at the table and you can tell me about everything that happened on Thanagar. And tell me you love me, before my brain completely falls apart.”_ _

__Damian runs a thumb across Tim’s cheekbone. He wonders if his tears have dried yet._ _

__“I love you, ya amar.”_ _

__“I love you too.”_ _

__“I propose, instead, that you feed the animals while I shower and change, I make grilled cheese and we eat it in bed and concern ourselves about cleaning the cave tomorrow.”_ _

__“I can’t,” Tim says. “I can’t ignore it now.” He feels grimey just standing there._ _

__“You feed the animals, I shower and change, we spend the night at the Tower sharing pizza with the others.”_ _

__“We book a pet friendly hotel, order room service, and eat it in the tub.”_ _

__Damian’s brow twitches. He’d be raising his eyebrow if it weren’t stitched in place._ _

__“Settled,” he says. “Tomorrow we will order Thai and divide the work into manageable pieces. Tonight, we deserve each other’s full attention.”_ _

__Tim leans into Damian’s chest again, listens to the steady thrum of his heartbeat._ _

__Damian’s home. It’s going to be okay._ _


	4. Domesticity 2: Weddings are to family as bats are to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best parent Dana Winters! Remember when DC allowed characters to have families? When there was a diverserange of postive family models that weren't either dead parents or abusive parents? Some heroes even had kids. And Tim had a step mother who was genuinely interested in his wellbeing (unlike most of his family).
> 
> I had it in my head that after Chemo hit Bludhaven she went to live with her sister somewhere in Texas (Austin? Houston?) but I can't find a canon reference to that now. so it's possibly just someone else's headcanon that's taken up residence in my brain.

Tim looks down at the name on the screen. Damian is cooking, but the ringtone has caught his attention and he’s frowning across the cave at Tim.

Just before it rings out Tim swipes and answers it.

“Dana.”

“Tim!”

It’s been so long since he’s spoken to her, but her sunny tones are exactly the same. He spends a little too long dwelling on that - dwelling on how broken she’s sounded last time he saw her in person - and the awkward silence takes a little of the pep out of her tone.

“My sister said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Oh, yeah. I just want to make sure I’ve got your current address. I’ve, uh, got something to send you.”

She rattles off the address he already knows, and asks, “what is it?”

He’s blushing, even though she can’t see him. He feels like a teenage boy again, and he can’t shake the phantom of his father’s voice hanging over the conversation.

“A wedding invitation,” he manages to grind out.

“A wedding- Oh my god, Tim! Congratulations! Tell me _everything_. It’s not Stephanie, is it?”

Tim snorts. “No, though we’re still friends. She’s actually my best man.”

“Oh how sweet!”

“Yeah, she is. No, it’s, uh. It’s Damian Wayne.”

He tenses, waiting for her reaction. Waiting for his father’s words to come from her mouth.

“Bruce Wayne’s son? Not the one you used to hang around with sometimes, the oldest. Is he the second one?” Dana gushes enthusiastically. Tim’s taken aback, has to recalibrate before he can answer but Dana doesn’t notice his shock and plows on. “Where did you meet him? You work for them now, don’t you?” 

“I used to,” TIm manages to break in, “but I’ve resurrected Drake Industries. Damian’s the youngest. He was still living with his mother when we lived next door to the Waynes, so I didn’t meet him until after… after…”

“After Jack died,” Dana supplies. “You can say it, hon. I mean, if you want to.”

“I don’t want to trigger anything for you.” 

Dana sighs. “I know. But not talking about it doesn’t change that it happened, and I’ve worked hard to get to a place where I can talk about it, sometimes. I’ve been thinking of reaching out to you. I wish I’d been able to offer you more support, but I was so scared of burdening you. But now… I mean, if you want to, if you ever just want to talk to someone else who remembers him.”

A sob overtakes him unexpectedly. Damian drops a spatula in the pan and comes running, vaulting over the back of the sofa to fold TIm into his arms.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. “I’d really like that, Dana.” He scrubs his eyes on the back of his sleeve. “Really. But not… I can’t. Right now.”

If he thinks about Jack too much, he’ll think about how Jack would have reacted to this news.

“It’s okay, hon. I’m sorry to drop that on you when you’re in the midst of celebrating. Tell me more about Damian.”

Tim glances up, Damian’s face inches from his own.

“You should meet him,” he says. “Come to San Francisco. We’ll show you around. Or we could come to you.”

“Ooh, I could do with a holiday.”

“Just let me know when works for you.”

“I can’t believe you’re getting _married_. How’s planning going? Have you got a venue?”

“Gotham Art Gallery. Damian draws, and paints. And it’s a beautiful building.”

“Oh, that does sound gorgeous. Are you walking down the aisle together? How does being given away work when it’s two men? I’ve never been to a same sex wedding before. You’ll have to tell me if I make any faux pas.”

“You won’t, Dana, I’m sure. And we haven’t decided that yet. Probably together, I guess. Or Bruce will walk Damian down?” He glances at his fiance, who shrugs. “To be honest, I’ve never been to a same sex wedding before either, so we’re pretty much figuring it out as we go along.”

“You have a lot of decisions to make. It’s definitely a marathon, wedding planning, not a sprint. Remember to stretch!” He can hear the impish grin in her tone, the reminder of hours of ‘torture’ Jack used to accused her of.

“Are you working in physical therapy still?” Tim asks.

“Yes. Well, part time. I pushed myself too hard when I was recovering at first, but I’ve found a good balance now.”

“I’m pleased for you. You loved your work more than almost anyone else I knew, but had a much better work-life balance than everyone else. You taught me, you know, that it was possible to love what you do without letting it take over your life.” Damian snorts, and Tim lets a wry smile show. “It’s not something I’ve always managed to put into practice,” he admits, “but I’m getting better at not bringing it home with me.”

He tangles his fingers in Damian’s and listens to Dana talk about her clinic and coworkers. She’s been studying up on new techniques and research in her field. A lot of his father’s friends thought she was just some blonde gym bunny who’d found a way to make her hobby pay, but she spent more time studying than all the academics in his circle put together.

When Dana and Jack got engaged she’d gone to the local bookshop and bought every pop-psychology book on step-parenting she could get her hands on. It had been a revelation to Tim that there were books on parenting, that it wasn’t just something that came naturally to people (or didn’t). She’d let him read them too, so they could talk about which techniques he was comfortable with and wasn’t.

He’d learned a lot about his upbringing then, and sometimes he regretted biting down on that apple of knowledge, unable to unlearn concepts like benign neglect and experiments on baby monkeys. But he’d put that aside, because Dana loved Jack as he was after the accident, and didn’t need to know more than Jack was willing to tell her about his first marriage. Jack and Dana had talked about having kids, Tim knew. Jack had let her think their travelling had been Janet’s idea, and as far as Tim knew it might have been, but he suspected a disinterest in young children afflicted both of his parents.

They’d looked forward to knowing him as an adult, persuaded themselves that the money they were earning for his future justified their distance in the present, that the bond they wanted to forge with him could be put off an infinity of tomorrows. And neither of them had lived to meet the adult they had hoped they were raising.

“Tim?”

“Sorry.” There’s a lump in his throat. “I just… I was thinking about dad.”

“I wish he was here to see you now. He’d be so proud of you.”

Tim swallows. “No. He wouldn’t.”

“Of course he would. Drake Industries, Tim!”

“I’m marrying a man.” His voice comes out flat. Damian squeezes his hand, and Tim looks down at their joined fingers. Damian’s hands are fine and slender, but still unmistakably male. “He was very clear how he felt about men like me.”

“He’d have come round.”

“Would he, Dana?” Tim sighs. “Sorry. This isn’t… We should be remembering the happy times.”

Dana’s quiet for a long moment on the other end of the line. “We can’t change the past, Tim. We can’t live in the what-ifs. I have, for a long time, and I can tell you confidently that if we did live in the what-if, he’d have loved you for who you are. Because if he didn’t, I’d have left him, and taken our what-if children with me, and you would have come to our what-if house for what-if holidays until he realised what a damned what-if fool he was being.”

Tim’s breath catches in his chest, one lung choked with sobs and the other hitching with laughter.

“You would have, wouldn’t you?” he says. He can picture it as clearly as if it was the life he’d lived. “You were always my ally in that house, even when I didn’t know I needed one. When I needed words to describe myself, I looked back and found them in your vocabulary, not Jack or Janet’s.”

He shifts in Damian’s arms, resting his head against Damian’s shoulder. “I really hope you can make it to the wedding,” he says.

Dana’s voice is as shaky as his. “Of course I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I don’t know anyone else who planned a wedding. Not a successful one, anyway. Do we need favours? Why are there so many kinds of cardstock for invites? What goes on a Save the Date?”

Dana’s laugh is weak and a little forced, but he can hear the smile slowly returning to her voice as she says, “No, late stage capitalism, as long as you manage to get the date and your names on there the rest is up to you.”

“You say that like you’ve had one that didn’t even manage that information.”

“I’m going to Alex and Sam’s wedding this August. Which Alex and which Sam, I await the invitation to find out.”

“Duly noted. Do you have an email address? Can I send you our drafts to check?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart.” Tim holds the phone away from his ear so when she rattles off her email Damian grabs one of his ink pens from the table and scrawls it on Tim’s forearm in arterial red. “It’s been really good talking to you, Tim.”

“You too, Dana. I’m sorry it got so fraught.”

“Don’t be. Do you… are you seeing a professional?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a therapist. She’s been trying to get me to talk about wedding planning for a while and I kept insisting there wasn’t anything to unpack there.”

He’d genuinely thought there wasn’t, not compared with everything else, but all the looming connections are lit up like strings of Christmas lights now and he can see why she kept asking him. Weddings are to Family as Bats are to Orphans. He’s made his peace with everything that happened with Bruce, but he’s going to have to make his peace with guests and strangers bringing it up, over and over, because marrying Bruce’s son really lights up in neon that “didn’t they used to be brothers?” niggle he worked so hard to push to the back of the public’s collective mind.

“Oh, honey. Wedding’s make everyone crazy. I know it’s not my place, but if there’s one piece of wedding advice I can give you, it’s double your time in therapy. You’ll think you can’t afford to give up any more time when you’re neck deep in planning on top of the day job, but you’ll find the planning much easier when you don’t have to wade through all the complicated feelings it brings up at the same time.”

Damian’s nodding along with her.

“That’s good advice,” Tim says. “Thank you, Dana. I… I want to talk again, if you do.”

“Of course I do.” There’s a hesitance in her voice, and it’s actually a relief for Tim, because he’s feeling it too. It’s been too long and there’s been too much unsaid, and the fallout is going to last for days. He doesn’t want to surprise her again, or be surprised, not when he has to pack it all back up again and keep going with his life afterwards.

“We could schedule it next time,” Tim says. “I’ll email you, and we can set up a time for a call when we’re both free. You can tell me about Austin. Whether you got a cat. We have a cat.”

“Let’s swap cat pictures,” Dana says. “And yes, schedule a time to talk again. I want to hear all about the wedding.”

“I want to tell you all about it,” he says.

He hangs up, and copies her email address from his arm to the contact in his phone. There’s an acrid smell coming from the kitchen area and Damian is trying very hard not to tense behind him.

“Go,” Tim says. “Don’t let it burn.”

“You need-”

“I need a minute,” he says. “But not a room full of smoke.” His appetite has flatlined, but hopefully it’ll come back before Damian dishes up.

Damian gives him a tight squeeze, before releasing him and sprinting over to the hob to salvage what he can of their supper. Tim sinks down into the cushions of the sofa. Alfred mews at him from floor level, the elderly cat half blind and mostly deaf and in near-constant need of reassurance his humans are still around, so Tim scoops the cat up and lays it on his belly. He’s rewarded by an immediate purr, so loud and deep he’s half scared the geriatric animal will hurt itself expressing its affection.

Dana.

Dana Winters-Drake.

Arguably the best parent he’d ever had, and he’s managed to rack up four, so he ought to know. She was the one who always asked me how his day was, who shared her own with him without acting like the question was in intrusion, who boasted about him to her colleagues, who offered him unconditional support. She read books on parenting and step-parenting and she worked with him to find a functional relationship, never making assumptions or expecting him to guess what she needed from him. She put effort in and made him feel like he was worth the effort.

She never took their relationship for granted.

He’d known he had to invite Dana to the wedding, even though they hadn’t spoken in years. He’d never questioned the impulse in his mind, just framed it to himself as obligation, using wedding etiquette to sidestep all the mental blocks he’d put up since his father’s death. If he’d admitted he missed her he’d have had to climb all the mental baggage that had built up around their relationship, and he’d told himself he didn’t have time, not right now. They could catch up at the wedding. It would be nice. He didn’t need to confront anything right now.

It had nearly worked, too. If she’d answered instead of her sister when he called initially he could have kept it to polite small talk and made his excuse after ten minutes, but instead she’d called him, taken him by surprise, and he’d let the conversation deepen until he couldn’t defend himself from it any more.

He’d thought he was an orphan. He’d let himself think it, let it define him, like it defined Bruce. Being an orphan was part of being Batman and Robin; wasn’t that why Bruce had taken in Dick in the first place? Even if Dick didn’t define himself as an orphan, not the way Bruce did, because Bruce was his dad. Tim had wanted Bruce to be his dad, so badly, that he’d convinced himself that he had to be an orphan in order to have the parent he needed. 

He’d always wanted Bruce to be his dad. Even when Jack was alive he’d wished it, secretly, and then Jack had died because Tim had manifested that wish with the next best thing, being Batman’s ‘son’, Robin, and he’d pushed Bruce away in a panic and hired a stranger to be his uncle rather than face the monkey’s paw reality he’d brought into being.

And he knows that’s not what happened, he wasn’t at fault, he hadn’t bargained his father away in favour of someone who was so very similar in so many ways - all the worst ways, with his single-minded attitude to his job and his tendency to only value the parts of Tim that were most like him - and thanks to the years of therapy he can flag and quarantine and de-claw these thoughts, but he lets himself feel it again because he’s shut down so many of the feelings wedding planning has brought up and Dana deserves something more from him than small talk and calculated coolness. 

He can’t pretend he’s kept his distance for her own good all these years. He should have called her. He let her stay on that ward and every time he’d thought about reaching out he’d got scared because if he had her maybe Bruce would think Tim didn’t need him. When everything was at its hardest it had been easy to convince himself he was wholly alone in the world. When he’d remembered her it had been as another person he’d lost, and he’d mourned their severed relationship as much as he’d mourned the one he’d never really managed to have with his birth parents. He’d recovered and moved on, and left her on the other side of that veil.

And then it all got complicated - Bruce _died_ and he was the kid with three dead parents - and he was emancipated, and he didn’t want to think about parents at all, just pretend he’d come into existence wholesale - like Kon, like Kon who’d been _dead_ \- and then the whole issue with the adoption and it was easier to just press reset on his whole concept of family and start a new one with Damian. The veil became a wall, and he bricked over his old family altogether.

But now he’s having a wedding, and weddings are to families what bats are to orphans, apparently.

“Are you hungry?”

Tim lifts himself up on his elbows. Alfred digs his claws into his chest in displeasure.

“A little,” he says. “But I’m be-catted.”

Damian reshuffles something on the counter, then comes over carrying a single plate. Tim can’t remember what Damian had been making originally, but what’s left is a couple of tightly rolled omelettes, some asian vegetables, a sweetcorn broth, and a strong smell of burnt rice.

Tim shifts down the sofa, careful not to disturb Alfred, and lets Damian take a seat. Damian lifts Tim’s head, supporting it like a baby’s, and lowers it to rest in his lap.

“Promise you won’t choke, ya amar?”

Tim nods.

Damian uses chopsticks to alternate between feeding Tim and himself. Peace settles over Tim like a warm blanket.

“Tell me about Dana,” Damian says.

“She was dad’s physiotherapist, after the plane crash. She’s a lot younger than he was - not even ten years older than me. A lot of people talked, at the time, but she’s sweet and clever and really passionate about helping people. Too good for dad, really.

“When he was killed, the trauma was too much for her. She retreated from reality. I used to visit her with Alfred at the hospital in Bludhaven, but it was hard, because she kept forgetting dad was dead and she didn’t understand where she was. And then Chemo happened, and she moved to live with her sister in Texas, and Gotham was Gotham and you came along and Kon died and Bart died and Bruce died and Kon and Bart and Bruce came back and you died and-” he breaks off. “Death was just a revolving door for a while there, and grief was so confusing, and it was easier not to think about the fact dad wasn’t coming back. And if I didn’t think about dad, I didn’t think about Dana.”

“What does she know?” Damian asks. “About what you were going through?”

“Nothing. She didn’t know about Robin. Dad found out, but he kept it from her.”

Tim stares around BatCave West. He imagines binging Dana here. Seeing the dawning realisation on her face that Jack didn’t die by mischance, the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time when a costumed supervillain was on a murderous rampage. That Tim brought it down on them. Tim destroyed their family.

This is why he hasn’t called her in the better part of a decade.

But she’s his parent, and he wants a relationship with her.

But he loves her, and he doesn’t want to hurt her.

“Tim?”

Bile rises in his throat and he pushes the omelette Damian is offering him away.

“She can’t come here,” he says.

“No. But we can put her up in a hotel at our expense.”

“She’ll want to see where we live.”

Damian shrugs. “We can’t have house guests. Blame Alfred. Or my studies. Or wedding planning or renovations or any polite fiction you choose. We can show her our home without inviting her into our house.”

Tim’s nausea subsides slightly. Damian’s right.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to see her yet,” Tim admits. “I don’t imagine she’s ready to see me.” The emotional hangover is setting in and he’s grateful he’s in familiar surroundings, with Damian his rock. He hopes Dana has someone at her side. “We need to get to know each other again first.”

“There’s no rush,” Damian says. “Email her the draft invitation and let things progress at their own pace.”

Tim pulls Alfred close enough to press his face into his greying fur, letting the wiry hair soak up his unshed tears.

“If- Can we-”

“Yes, ya amar?”

“Can we put her on the head table?”

“Of course.”

For the first time in years, the label that ties him to Bruce, to the legacy of Robin, to his past, slips away. He’s not an orphan. Damian will have an in law. It's another bit of wedding etiquette conformed to, and his anxiety subsides.

"I haven't told you much about my parents," Tim says. "I- Do you mind if I talk about them? Just for a bit?"

"I'd be honoured."

Tim reaches up, tangles his fingers with Damian's - admiring the masculinity of his hand, and that he, Tim, gets to hold it without guilt or shame - and settles on a starting point.

"You know I used to sneak out to take photos of Robin? Only, it wasn't really _sneaking_..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dana's "what ifs" is the thread of a Stray AU I'll probably never write, where Dana and Jack have kids and then split up and genderqueer Tim is supporting his stepmum and half siblings, possibly with some Selina/Dana (or just some Selina & Dana co-parenting!). I get stuck trying to conceptualise the Batfam without Tim (especially Damian and Bruce's relationship) and it gets so angsty it's hard to reconcile it with the tone otherwise, so I haven't tried to make written sense of it at all. If I ever get around to writing the wedding in this, it's going to be fun throwing unwitting Dana into the Batfamily!politics. Selina is going to make sure she's got the most glamorous MoG dress ever.


	5. Domesticity 3: Invitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for references to canon statuatory rape and sexual assault. Heavy on the angst again.

“I can’t find the invitation for your mother,” Tim says. “Where are we even sending it to?”

Damian looks up from the stack of black and gold rectangles in front of him.

“She’s not invited.”

Tim picks up two stacks of envelopes and shuffles them together like a deck of cards. He says he has a system. Damian has to trust he has a system.

“She’s on the list,” Tim says. His tone is careful, like he’s picking his way through one of Riddler’s traps. 

Damian tenses. He knows Tim is trying to be sensitive, but he finds himself getting more and more frustrated that he’s someone people need to be sensitive to. It reminds him of their early days together. Sure, he’s tired and overstretched and underestimated how distressing working in a hospital would be, but he’s not delicate.

Not like his patients - not his patients, his tutors keep telling him, he’s only a student, but _his_ even so - who with every broken bone, dislocation, concussion, laceration and internal injury remind Damian of the role he has increasingly little time for now. The worst shifts are the ones after he’s been out fighting crime, when not only is he bone tired and punch drunk, but it’s his own victims he’s observing.

“Damian?”

He doesn’t want to quit. He’s most of the way through his programme, now, and he loves the work with a burning passion. He just… wishes the work was in a different context.

“I changed my mind,” he says shortly.

Tim reaches over and puts his hand on Damian’s shoulder. Damian shrugs it off.

“If you change it again,” Tim says. “That’s okay too.”

Damian swallows. The invitations swim in front of his eyes.

“It’s not,” he says, voice tearing at his throat.

“Of course it is, Damian. Bruce understands she’s your mother.”

“It’s not father,” Damian says. “It’s Jason.”

He can feel tears gathering and he blinks them away.

“Jason?” Tim abandons the envelopes to sit next to Damian. He doesn’t put a hand on him, this time, waiting for Damian to invite him to.

Damian tries to hold himself together a little longer, but he knows it’s a losing battle, and it’s ridiculous to deny himself comfort just because he’s angry at this mother. Why did he have to be her son? Why did she have to do the things she did? Why did she have to mould him in her image?

“I promised him,” Damian says quietly, leaning in to Tim’s side, “that I would always put him first, as my brother.”

“He’s asked you not to invite Talia?” Tim slides his arm around Damian’s waist. 

“No. He wouldn’t.” Damian presses his face against Tim’s shoulder and inhales the smell of ink and paper that’s wrapped itself around his husband-to-be. He takes a minute to compose what he wants to say in his head, gives himself permission to stay silent for another and just appreciate the man beside him. “He was fifteen, Tim. Had lived fifteen years, anyway. He had PTSD, and pit madness, and, and, and he was _scared_ , Tim. She was in a position of power over him.”

He lifts his head from Tim’s shoulder. He’s seen a lot of fifteen year olds in the hospital. He can’t believe Bruce ever let any of them out so young. He can’t believe Jason died _so young_.

He can’t believe his mother had sexual intercourse with a boy so young.

“He leaves Gotham when she comes,” Damian says. “He doesn’t talk about it, but I know being around her upsets him.”

“I don’t think he’d appreciate you making this decision for him, though,” Tim says. “I mean, when you’re talking about control and consent and…” he gestures.

“Sexual assault. Statutory rape.”

It’s the first time he’s said the R word out loud.

“I think Jason should get to define what happened to him, and I think he gets to control what happens now.” Tim’s using his careful voice again.

“If I ask, he’ll tell me to invite her,” Damian says. “He’ll tell me she’s my mother.”

Tim frowns. “That sounds more like my line,” he says quietly. “Jason is less sentimental about motherhood, for obvious reasons.”

“Tt. Of course he isn’t.” And he isn’t, though it’s a different kind of sentimental to Tim. 

Damian’s got a lot closer to Jason over the years, and he adores Lian, who is the one who broached the topic with him. She’d dropped by after a Titans mission, while Tim was at work, and asked him if they’d talked about seating yet. She wouldn’t have dreamt of asking him not to invite his mother, but she just wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to put her dad on the same table.

He’d promised her they wouldn’t, and they hadn’t talked any more about it, just discussed whether Lian had picked a major yet. After Tim had come home and they’d had dinner with their favourite niece before Tim had given her a ride back to the Tower. And while they were gone Damian had opened Tim’s wedding planning spreadsheet and deleted his mother. And he’d felt relieved.

“I don’t want her there,” Damian says. “I keep picturing our wedding, and either she’s preying on father, or Jason, or one of our guests. She’s telling everyone about our first wedding and how we didn’t invite her. She’s trying to separate us. She’s trying to kill you. She’s _there_ , in every photo, every speech, every significant moment. She’s all I _can_ picture.”

He feels sick thinking about it, his heart thumping in his chest.

“Damian,” Tim says. “You’re allowed to not invite her because _you_ don’t want her there, you do know that? Not for Jason’s sake, or Bruce’s, or mine.”

“She’s my mother.” She’s a killer and a manipulator and a rapist, and she’s his mother. She’s half of him.

“Would you be happier if she didn’t come?”

The tears finally spill over. He tries to talk, but no sound comes out, and in the end all he can do is nod.

Tim pulls him into a hug, rearranging his legs on the sofa so he can lie back against the arm and pull Damian down with him. The invitations cascade to the floor.

He presses his face against Tim’s neck and sobs. He sobs for his father, who conceived him under the influence of drugs. He sobs for Jason, too young and vulnerable and fucked up to understand he should have had a choice. He sobs for himself, born and raised and cloned and killed by a woman who only ever loved him conditionally.

Eventually he finds his voice again, rough and muffled against Tim’s cashmere sweater. “She told me she wanted to come. In Turkey, the last time I saw her.”

“That doesn’t place an obligation on you,” Tim says. “On us. So she wants to come. Everyone wants to come. It’s the event of the year, according to Vicki Vale.” Damian shivers against his as Tim’s hands tangle in his short hair, fingers digging into Damian’s scalp just the way he likes. “If she gets in touch, blame me. Say I refused to let you invite her. Let me be the bad guy.”

It’s the event of the year. There’s going to be hundreds of people, friends and family, all wondering why Damian’s mother isn’t there.

It’s still an improvement on if she is, though.

“Ana bahebak, ya amar.”

“Ana bahebak, baby bat.” Tim bobs his head up to peck a kiss on the end of Damian’s nose. “You want to take a nap before we get back to it?” he asks.

Damian nods. He’s stretched himself too thin lately, pushed himself too hard, and he hasn’t been sleeping, not with the issue of Talia going round and round and round. He's been exhausted for a long time, but for the first time in weeks he feels like he can actually sleep. Relief leadens his limbs and relaxes him in a way he'd forgotten he could be.

He shifts to the side, so his whole weight isn’t on top of Tim. His back pressed against the back of the sofa, he pushes Tim until he’s on his side, and pulls Tim flush against him to spoon him. Tim shoves a couple of creased invites out from underneath them, and wriggles deeper into the cushions. The couch is too short and too shallow for both of them and he has to pin Tim in place with an arm and a leg to make sure he won’t slip off onto the floor. His eyes are gritty from crying and his nose is blocked - he’s going to snore as soon as he drifts off - and he’s going to have a terrible crick in his neck later.

“Timothy?”

“Mmhm?”

His fiance is already dropping off to sleep, even though it’s Damian who’s exhausted himself.

“Thank you. For... giving me permission to do this. I needed to hear it from someone I trusted, that it was the right thing to do.”

Tim pats him ungently on the hip with a sleep-clumsy hand. "You did it already. You knew it was right."

"It felt right. Too right. I thought I was being selfish."

Tim tangles his fingers in Damian's and squeezes. "I'm head cheerleader for Team Damian. Trust me to support you. Let me be the bottom of your pyramid when you're wobbling."

"Your metaphor is slipping." Damian yawns. "I am the coach of Team Timothy, and I say it's time for the team to nap."

"'lympic gol' medalissssstss."

Damian nuzzles the back of Tim's neck. His husband's breathing has slowed and deepened, the press of the back of his rib cage against Damian's chest forcing Damian to match his rhythm.

This is his family. This is the person who makes him feel safe. Who loves him unconditionally, who soothes his fears, who celebrates his joys. He is not just his mother's acolyte or his father's apprentice. He is greater than the sum of his parts, because at least one of those parts is greater than him. He is Tim's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing is, I quite like Talia when she's written well. She's really interesting in B:TAS (and a romantic interest that's different to Catwoman) but a lot of male writers have an idea of how a sexy female assassin behaves that are purely predatory. Save your rape fantasies for fanfic, guys.


End file.
